BLOODLINES ↠ JON SNOW

I. COMMANDER

I.  COMMANDER

     THE JOURNEY TO HARDHOME WAS LONG; filled with icy winds that knifed the men of the Night's Watch. However far north you would go, you could never get used to the cold. It would bite at men like a starving dog -- desperate for the taste of bare flesh. Enemies to the north, enemies to the south: but the cold was the most dangerous of all, and winter was coming. It snapped at their heels, a somewhat unrelenting force, and yet, all Jon could think about was what waited for them at the shore. An army of wildlings -- friend or foe?

The sharp ring of bells screamed their arrival, rousing Jon from his thoughts. Hardhome stood in the distance -- half hidden in snow and sleet. Convincing the wildlings to trust them would be a difficult task, but necessary. Every wildling north of the wall was one more body in the army of the dead. They needed to put their differences behind them if they were to survive the Long Night.

"Jon, we're ready to go ashore," Edd Tollett, a friend and fellow man of the Night's Watch, began as he walked to his commander's side, "How do you know they won't attack us the minute we step foot on land?"

Jon looked at his friend for a moment before dropping his head. "I don't know that, Edd...but it doesn't matter. We need to do this."

The man took a long breath of the cool air, looking out into the distance. "I know."

<>

Jon, Tormund and a group of Night's Watchmen stepped out the boat and into the deck of Hardhome. The wildling man led Jon towards a small group, before speaking as quietly as his gruff voice would allow. "You trust me, Jon Snow?"

The Bastard glanced at the wildling before looking forward once again. "Does that make me a fool?"

"We're fools together now," Tormand grimaced; the pair finally arriving at the group. "You need to gather your leaders -- find somewhere quiet to talk."

"You don't give the orders here." A wildling spat, stepping forward. Jon recognised him from when he'd first entered the wildling camp with Ygritte -- he was the Lord of Bones.

"I'm not giving an order."

The Lord of Bones glared at the pair before turning his attention to Tormund's untied hands. "Why aren't you in chains?"

Jon wet his lips before taking a small step forward. "He's not my prisoner. We're allies."

At that, the wildling group immediately broke out into a chorus of complaints that shattered the peace of the icy northern air. The Lord of Bones pulled his staff from his belt, pointing it to Tormund's chest. "You fucking traitor! You fight for the crows now!"

"I don't fight for the crows," Tormund growled, his jaw clenched.

"We're not here to fight; we're here to talk," Jon replied, his voice loud, but unconditionally calm.

"Is that right?" The Lord of Bones spat on the ground in front of them, raising his staff once again. "You and the pretty crow do a lot of talking, Tormund. And when you're done talking, do you get down on your knees and suck his--"