Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

6th Day of the 6th Moon

Jon Snow

A sigh tore from his mouth as he stared at the varnished ebony poles that held the tent's ceiling. His sire's luxurious tent, then his father's and now his. The smell of last night's coupling still lingered in the air. Albeit somewhat awkward at the start, Val had been as wild as a shadowcat, and his back still ached from where her nails had dug into his flesh, but it wasn't painful enough to bother him.

This was the second time he was 'stolen'.

Truthfully, Val couldn't steal him even if she tried, but alas, the sight of her bare body in the dark turned the seething embers of desire into a raging fire of passion. For a short moment, Jon had tried to find the words and the will to turn her away but found neither.

There were no vows to hold him back this time, nor were they foes with different goals.

Was it love?

There was passion and lust here, desire, and Jon truly liked Val now that he got to know her more. Without a shred of doubt, the spearwife was comely, loyal, and fierce. There was also an undeniable sliver of pride underneath, and she was good - one of the most resourceful hunters and trackers Jon had seen.

The request for training had caught him flat-footed, but the desire to learn was genuine. And those daring eyes, more silver than grey, made Jon's insides twist with desire.

Love is the death of honour, the bane of duty.

But he was neither a brother of the Night's Watch nor did he bear the crown of winter anymore, just a nameless bastard in the vast lands Beyond the Wall. There were no vows, oaths, or duty, just Jon Snow.

Nor could his feelings truly be called love; that lesson was learned long ago. Not yet - Jon Snow definitely held affection for Val, and it could grow into more with time.

Light softly spilt from the edges of the tent's entrance, where a brown bear's hide served as a flap. Jon lowered his gaze, and his eyes settled on her peaceful face. Val's soft, honeyed curls sprawled across his chest as she clutched his side in her sleep. The way her fingers curled over his torso made desire pulse beneath his skin again. With Ygritte, it had been a hasty affair borne out of peril, necessity, and lies, yet there was none of that here. Jon could now understand all those men who visited the whorehouses - a woman's warm touch was a stronger temptation than the sweetest of wines.

Though, did it matter anymore? The deed could not be undone. He could only accept it as fact and move on. That thought wasn't… too bad.

Why wouldn't he try and find some happiness for himself? No, he had already found it, and now, Jon had to grasp it with his hands and not let go.

The thought echoed in his mind; it was equally liberating and terrifying.

We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our greatest glory and our greatest tragedy.

Would it be glorious… or would it be tragic?

No, Jon Snow had enough tragedy for a lifetime.

No more!

The thought lit a fire inside him, something that had long been extinguished. He had accepted loss, death, and failure as a part of life long ago. But… neither was an option now, not anymore!

Jon Snow no longer drifted amidst the darkness and cold, seeking death in battle. No, he wanted to live. He wanted to win.

Just drifting towards a vague direction, an idea would not do anymore.

With his two hands, he'd grasp victory by the horns and make it glorious.

Val stirred, and her silvery-grey eyes blearily cracked open as she gazed at his face.

"It dawn yet?" A drowsy groan escaped her rosy lips.

"Aye."

The sun had risen half an hour ago, and Ghost was already patrolling around the camp with elation.

"You're mine now," the spearwife declared triumphantly before wincing. "Gods, do you ever tire?"

"Maybe," he chortled. "But I think it was I who did the stealing. After all, you're in my tent and bed now, are you not?"

Stealing was not final for the free folk; no, it was not marriage. It could lead to such, but it was not one - even the free folk considered a true marriage a union before the eyes of the gods, and it involved no force or fighting. Relationships Beyond the Wall could be simple and infuriatingly complicated. Val could still leave and pretend none of this happened, and so could Jon.

But he didn't want to.

His question was innocent enough, but the underlying meaning remained - did she want this to continue or not?

Val groaned again but did not deny it.

"I'll get my things here, then," the spearwife stretched languidly and yawned.

And this was it - now Jon Snow had a paramour, maybe a wife in time if the gods willed it. Being wed was a new… but not an unwelcome thought - in his last life, he did not dare to dream or even think of it. After all, why would he curse a woman with his bastard surname? And later, he simply did not care amidst the numbness anymore.

A movement grabbed his gaze again - Val's generous form was revealed again as she shrugged off the covers, and he had to squash the burning desire rising within. He couldn't tear his eyes off as the spearwife grabbed his cloak, the one with the direwolf sigil, covered herself and strode outside with a hypnotising sway of her hips.

The camp would definitely know what had happened now if they had not heard them during the night - neither Jon nor Val tried to be quiet.

His mind drifted to the imminent meeting - they were close, and Mance Rayder's camp would be found in the next few days. It would decide everything, and he could not afford failure, not anymore. His thoughts churned furiously, trying to cobble up a better plan; simply reacting to things and going with the flow would not do anymore.

***

8th Day of the 6th Moon

Tormund Giantsbane

They were all sitting in a crescent before a large bonfire again.

"It's been almost four moons now!" Harma was disgruntled again.

They all were; Mance was late - he should have returned half a moon ago or so. And without Rayder to make peace, things were becoming heated, and not in the good way.

"What if his crow friend on the Wall lied, eh?" Alfyn Crowkiller had the nasty snarl upon his face again. "Mance cannot come back because he's already dead, deceived by those kneelers!"

Devyn Sealskinner anxiously tugged onto his tangled dark hair that looked more like a bird's nest than anything else.

"He coulda been delayed!"

"Or he could've been caught! Or even the Wall could have killed him - even the best raiders can die if the ice falls off!"

"We cannot afford ta wait here fer much longer," even the quiet Soren Shieldbreaker spoke up. "The surrounding land is almost stripped bare!"

"Rayder will come back! And-"

Tormund remained silent as they argued, and he glanced at the Thenn chieftain, who also watched on with a grim face - although, with his missing ears and bald head, Styr always looked ferocious. Mag the Mighty's enormous grey form also shuffled with worry.

At first, he wasn't worried much - Mance Rayder could have been delayed, be it by some storm or other mishap on the road. The distance he had to travel was vast, but Rayder had been to the wolf lord's den before, so Tormund held no worry. But the days flew by, and there was no word of Mance.

The Mead-king of the Ruddy Hall had to face reality now - the King Beyond the Wall wasn't coming back. The only person who was keeping this quarrelsome lot together could very well be dead. Soon enough, the warring chieftains would begin to fight again, and many other tribes would leave - it was Mance Rayder who they followed, and Mance Rayder was gone.

Even that red witch of the east remained silent as she gazed into the flames - the Lord of Bones had brought her here. Her worship of the god of fire attracted many a man amidst the snow - everyone wanted a piece of warmth. But it was a foolish thing - fire was useful, aye, but to spurn the forests, the rivers and stones, and the winds and storms was folly.

Melisandre did not understand the old gods - they were the fury of nature in their fierce glory, ice and fire included. The flames were a hungry thing - they only consumed and gave nought but ash back.

"That's fucking it!" Rattleshirt leapt up on his feet and turned to leave.

"Where are ye goin'?!" Harma cried out.

"Out of here!"

More and more chieftains stood up to leave, but suddenly, everyone halted, and the clearing grew silent.

"Wok dak nah gran!" Mag's mighty voice tore through the air as he stood up, and his eyes looked to the south worriedly.

Squirrel people?

And then, Tormund saw them.

Short, deer-like folk, with sewn-bark for tunics and cloaks of leaves, spears and bows in their clawed grasp, and the surrounding free folk warily split to make way. None of the folk dared to bar their path. But, no, they were not the real surprise - it was the man walking at their helm.

Dark hair, grey eyes hard like stone, with a fine grey cloth with a white direwolf head sewn upon it. Southron?

But a spearwife stood proudly to his left, as a wife would, and was cloaked in a fine shadowskin pelt, and a ringmail peeked underneath, and to his right, there was an enormous snowy direwolf with red eyes. The beast was far bigger than any other direwolf Tormund had seen, but that was not all - he could count at least half a dozen other direwolves trailing behind as if they were obedient pups.

Next to his snow bear, Sixskins was salivating at the sight.

With the wolves, the leafcloaks, and the men, more than half a hundred followed this chieftain.

He was young, but a long, thin scar sat proudly beneath his left eye. His whole presence screamed danger to every one of Tormund's senses, and there was relentless surety and purpose in his stride. Not even when fighting crows, other tribes, or wights had he met such a daring demeanour.

Tormund was confused - he had never heard of kneeler wargs before. Or maybe it was one of the other two men behind him who were skinchangers, although they looked just as Southron as he did.

An angry figure barred his path. Rattleshirt glared at the newcomer with distrust, hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Who the fuck are ya?"

"Jon Snow, son of Eddard Stark," the young man's strong voice was like a whip as it cleaved through the clearing. The enormous white direwolf sat down like an obedient pup; when sitting down, the beast was even taller than his master.

A hush fell across the camp, and for an agonisingly long heartbeat, nobody dared to breathe. The Starks were well known even here, Beyond the Wall - dangerous men, the strongest of the kneeler southrons. Many a raider had tried to kill Benjen Stark for glory but instead had fallen under his wicked blade.

Surprise gave way to everything else as the Lord of Bones stepped forth, body tense and ready to fight.

"What's a kneeler want with Mance Rayder?"

"Mance Rayder? Why would I want anything to do with a dead man?"

Whispers and murmurs spread like snow in the wind. But Tormund could find no deception in the man's voice, and to his surprise, he found out that he did not question the statement. After all, they were already considering Mance's death just earlier.

Rattleshirt unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Jon Snow, "You killed Mance, then?"

"Nay, it was my brother who did - shortened him a head."

Harma now approached with her wicked spear and hateful snarl.

"You're bold to come here after killing our king, kneeler!"

"Mance Rayder was nought but a stubborn fool for trying to sneak into my father's home uninvited," Jon Snow shrugged unapologetically.

That angered some, but others seemed to agree with the words. Tormund among the latter - he disproved Mance's desire to sneak South - and it turned out he was right. Trying to sneak into a man's home was spitting on guest rights and would get you killed even here, in the true north!

"I say we kill this fucking kneeler and his filthy beasts!" Alfyn Crowkiller brandished his spear savagely, trying to rouse the others into action, yet none was too quick to attack a pack of direwolves, let alone one led by a man.

"Is that a challenge to single combat?" Despite being surrounded, Jon Snow showed no fear and stared daringly at the Crowkiller. The raider shuffled uneasily with hesitation as everyone looked at him. The Southron's face twisted into a mocking smile, "Or are you too craven to fight me yourself? Mayhaps you need some help from your friends?"

Alfyn's face reddened.

"That's fucking it! I'll gut ya, kneeler," Alfyn approached, spear poised, as everyone retreated to clear up a circle. "Keep your mangy pets away."

It had been a while since a challenge to single combat had been issued so boldly and in front of many people. Mance had done it twice or thrice, but the fights had been held in secluded places with few eyes watching.

"I've no need for Ghost's aid," Jon Snow ran his hand through the shaggy white fur of the direwolf, who then silently retreated next to the fair-haired spearwife. Only the two challengers remained amidst the circle. "If you're feeling uncertain, you can call for more friends - I don't mind."

The mocking lilt in his voice seemed to enrage Alfyn, who gave a guttural cry and charged with his spear, and the surrounding folk began to cheer and jeer.

Jon Snow calmly drew his sword from the sheath, and Tormund could see dark, smoky ripples glisten along the blade.

Alfyn stabbed forward, trying to skewer him, and Tormund thought he would have succeeded, but the warg lazily stepped aside in the last second, and his sword blurred through the air.

Tormund sucked in a deep breath as Alfyn's head rolled on the ground, and his body collapsed like a fallen tree, staining the slush red.

The jeers and cheers halted - the only thing that could now be heard was the breathing of the crowd as wispy clouds of white smoke escaped their mouths. The dark blade dripped rich with blood, and Jon Snow unceremoniously picked up Alfyn's fur cloak and used it to clean his sword.

Alfyn was not a weakling - even Tormund could admit he would take some time to defeat the fierce raider. But this Jon Snow seemed very cunning - he enraged the Crowkiller and slaughtered him with one swing. And it was not easy to behead a man in a single strike, no. Tormund had thought right - the Southron was dangerous.

"Anyone else?" The voice boomed like a crack of thunder. "Anyone else wants to fight me? Come now, step forth!"

Tormund wanted to stop this folly and find out what the kneeler was doing here so far north, but interrupting a challenge was not done unless you wanted to show yourself gutless craven. Besides, they were better off without Alfyn anyway.

A few hesitated, and just as Tormund thought Rattleshirt would leap to the opportunity, the red witch whispered something in his ear, but after a moment of hesitation, the man pushed her away and stepped forth anyway.

He was not the only one, as Weeper, thick, with his shaggy blonde mane and his cloudy blue eyes, had entered the ring, eyeing the other raider cautiously with his watery gaze.

"Piss off, Weeper. He and his fancy sword are mine!"

"I'll carve your eyes out, Rattleshirt," the Weeper taunted with a sinister smile as he swung his scythe testily.

"There's no need to squabble - one or two makes no difference to me," Jon Snow snorted dismissively, infuriating both of his foes.

"I'll drink from your skull, you kneeler scum," Rattleshirt spat, then turned to Weeper, "You can have his eyes, but I get to keep his sword."

"Fine," the other raider grunted, and together, they began circling Jon Snow.

Tormund couldn't help but wonder if the kneeler had overestimated himself - both his foes were experienced raiders and could keep their wits sharp even while angered; they were also cautious, unlike the reckless Alfyn.

Now, Weeper was approaching through the front, while Rattleshirt wanted to flank their foe by the back, although Jon Snow did not seem particularly bothered.

They attacked at the same time, scythe from the front and jagged sword from the back.

Jon Snow jerked back, evading one and lazily twisted, deflecting the sword aiming for his back. The next slash was towards his face, but it was easily parried. Weeper and Rattleshirt were very aggressive but couldn't fight well together - the kneeler effortlessly weaved between their strikes and parried the rest. He was quick on his feet, often moving in such a way that left both of his foes to the front, and sometimes even managed to manoeuvre around, placing Rattleshirt between himself and Weeper. For every step they made, the Southron did two, if not three, all quick and precise!

All of that done with a grin on his face - he was playing with them. Jon Snow had not even attacked yet! Tormund felt like he was watching two wild boars charging after a shadowcat, which was just toying around with them instead.

The next moment, everything went to shit.

Harma silently leapt into the clearing as the fighters approached her position, spear in hand, aiming for Jon Snow's back. Yet, before she could do anything, the fair-haired spearwife with the shadowskin cloak had dashed forward. Varamyr's face was twisted in greed and malice as he eyed Jon Snow and the direwolves.

Yet, an agonising wail escaped from his mouth; Sixskin's bear roared in fury, the direwolves began to growl, and everyone reached for their weapons and -

"ENOUGH!"

The kneeler's bellow whipped like thunder, halting all of them.

Weeper lay on the snow, head rolling away from his fallen body, while Rattleshirt's corpse rested on the ground, cleaved in two from head to groin, bloody innards steaming softly in the air, and his jagged sword still in the grasp of his right hand, albeit severed just above the hilt. Harma was weakly gurgling on the ground, her throat skewered by the kneeler's spearwife with a spear, and Sixskins was spasming on the snow, steam coming out of his eyesockets - it looked like they were boiled like a stew - Tormund would eat his beard if this wasn't some sorcery, not that anyone would miss Varamyr. Knowing the vicious runt, the greedy Sixskins tried to do something and got himself killed for it.

His enormous snow bear was slumped on the ground next to its owner, two arrows sticking out of its eyes; the odd feather fletchings could only belong to the southron greybeard with the bow that followed Jon Snow.

Not only that, but the enormous snowy direwolf had ripped out the throat of Varamyr's shadowcat, and Sixskins' wolves had all their tails lowered in submission before the warg's pet.

Tormund shook his head; sorcery was a dangerous thing; wargs were thrice as dangerous as ordinary folk and sorcerers - thrice as dangerous as wargs.

Everyone seemed tense - and if an actual fight broke out, Tormund wasn't sure it would stop - the quarrelling tribes and clans might very well decide to start their old feuds in the commotion. That was beside the fact that none wanted to be the first to attack the deadly Southron and his direwolves.

Yet, despite the outburst of violence, which was deserved, Jon Snow stood there, unmoving yet ready to fight again. Those damned fools, Harma and Varamyr, had tried to interrupt a challenge and paid for their lives. Still, the sudden onset of fighting made things even more tense.

In fact, Jon Snow had only slain the most feared and hated warband leaders so far - nobody that would be missed. A glance told him that a few raiders were already planning on taking command of the now-headless warbands. And the Southron's eyes were now vicious and his gait defiant - he was not afraid to die and take as many as he could down with him.

Tormund shared a short glance with Styr, who nodded reluctantly, and Giantsbane stepped forward, sword in hand.

"You're a bold man, Jon Snow," Tormund admitted begrudgingly. "And good with a blade," the best he had seen, yet such words would never be said aloud, "but you're surrounded and have taken no guest right. Why have you come here to make trouble, kneeler?"

"To tell you how to kill Others."

Tormund blinked, unsure if he was hearing things in the cold. He was far from the only one - many looked at Jon Snow with distrust and disbelief or as if he had gone mad.

"The cold shadows cannot be killed," Styr snorted from the side. "Many tried."

One of the Children stepped forth, cloaked with crimson weirwood leaves and gazed at them with golden-green cat-like eyes.

"Jon Snow has met the Singers of the Ice twice and emerged victorious both times," her voice was high and sweet, yet sad. There was no doubt who these Singers of the Ice were.

"And why would we trust yer word?" Morna Whitemask spoke up for the first time.

"Do you have any choice?" Jon Snow's grey eyes were like two chips of stone as his gaze roamed over the gathered free folk. "Aren't you tired of running for your life? Of being hunted down like dogs?"

"You crows are the ones that hunt us down!" An angry voice echoed from behind.

"Aye, shout like a craven from the back, but do you dare to show your face?" The Southron snorted when none moved. "I am no crow, and I took no vows - yet the feud you spoke of goes both ways. At least you can fight back against the crows, can you not?"

Tormund knew Jon Snow was right - most were only willing to band together and follow Mance because he showed them a way out where they saw none. Yet the fool went and got himself killed playing bard, and without him, they couldn't even band together anymore. Even Mance dared not attack the Wall directly - the kneelers were numerous and could not be underestimated.

"Tell us then!"

***

9th Day of the 6th Moon

Jarod Snow

The sky was cloudless, endless blue stretched from east to west, and the sun's warm rays seemed to warm everything up.

He looked around - the enormous camp was already over half empty, and even more wildlings were departing.

Gods, the stones of Jon Snow still left him awed even today. Many changed when they bedded a woman, but his change had been grander than most. His bearing had utterly transformed since Val walked out of his tent with the direwolf cloak wrapped around her. Any previous trace of reluctance and solitude was gone, and if Jarod did not know better, he'd say he was looking at Rickard Stark come again.

The sheer daring and gall that a boy of six and ten had to pull off his stunt was the stuff of legend and myth - and if he was a bard, he'd already be making a song about it. Alas, Jarod's talent was gravely lacking - his voice sounded like a bull's grunts, and he had no wits for rhymes.

Jarod had almost pissed himself yesterday when they entered the camp - but Jon Snow walked in as if he owned the place, and none dared to halt his way, be it out of fear from the direwolves or surprise from the Singers. That was beside the fact that there were fuckin' giants in the flesh here. Even the smallest was twice as tall and large as a burly man.

He thought the bastard of Winterfell a madman for his insane actions in the gathering of chieftains - but instead, the young man seemed to have won their grudging respect after slaying five of them. Seven bloody hells; there had even been a short moment where it looked like they would die fighting surrounded by thousands of wildlings, and Jarod almost shat his breeches.

Yet, Jon Snow knew what he was doing, who to kill, what to say, and when to say it, and the situation had calmed down. A few wildlings had still glared at them as if they wanted to boil their bones and drink their marrow, but none dared to make any move.

There were doubts concerning the effectiveness of obsidian, but with Dalla, Val, and the Children backing his words, coupled with his offer to swear on a heart tree, had many believing.

To Jarod's surprise, the wildlings seemed barely more than savages, rapers, and thieves at first, but at least they knew the old gods and followed most of the proper traditions.

As soon as the word about the obsidian and a few locations where to find it had spread, many had left the camp - they had come to follow Mance Rayder, and with him dead, old feuds were renewed. None dared to fight in the camp, though, as Styr of the Thenn and Tormund Giantsbane had managed to keep the peace together.

And now, they were gathered again before the bonfire, but in reduced numbers.

"Do you truly want to lead us, warg lord?" It was a woman with shaggy chestnut hair, face covered by a weirwood mask.

"I am going to fight against the Others regardless," Jon's voice was daring as he stood before the gathered chieftains again, Ghost's enormous form sitting next to him as if he were an obedient dog. "I said it yesterday, and I shall say it again today - you're free to join me if you wish."

The red priestess was gazing at Jon Snow with devotion and desire as if she were a hungry wolf and he was a fresh piece of meat. And gods wasn't that a fucking surprise, a priestess of R'hllor all the way here.

Jon Snow avoided the woman's attempts to approach or start a conversation and did not even deign to look at her.

Melisandre's interest in the young bastard who wouldn't even look at her made Val seem like a furious shadowcat - ready to pounce and claw the Essosi's woman eyes out.

"He is Azor Ahai come again-"

"Do not speak when your counsel is not requested," Jon's voice was full of venom, again not looking at the red-haired woman. "None care for your old dusty prophecies here."

The red priestess recoiled as if struck but offered no response, content to observe with her blood-red eyes.

"Why would we follow you, Lord Snow?" Soren Shieldbreaker, a burly auburn-haired chieftain with a large ax, asked. "You already told us how to kill the Cold Ones."

"Indeed," he nodded serenely. "I told you how to kill them, but none of you truly know how to fight them. If you follow me, I will not only show you how but I shall be the first in every battle."

The Ned had taught his son well; a true Stark of Winterfell never gave orders that he was unwilling to do himself!

The proclamation was met with a wave of approving grunts and nods - it seemed that even the wildlings could appreciate a valiant man.

"Why do you even want to kill the Others?" It was the voice of the broad-chested Tormund Giantsbane, a short, greying man of tall boasts and jolly laughter. "You can just hide behind that Wall o' yours. Har, I knew I would if I were you!"

"Maybe I could," the young bastard agreed, surprising many. "But only for a time. When winter comes, the white winds blow, and snow falls from the sky without an end, the Bay of Ice and the Bay of Seals will freeze, and the Wall won't save me either."

Jarod shuddered as if ants crawled up his spine, but he was far from the only one - those words seemed to chill them all.

"We don't kneel," Styr gruffly spoke.

"And I will never ask you to," Jon riposted, earning a lot of surprised glances. "But a word of fealty on your honour - that I'll take."

Some of the chieftains, more than a third, scowled at the words and left.

"Fight me first," the Magnar of the Thenn challenged.

Jon stood undaunted, "Fist, sword, or axe?"

"Har," Tormund chortled, "You certainly got stones, lad!'

"Fist," Styr grunted.

The wildling chieftain unclasped his cloak and removed his bronze-scaled shirt and the crude tunic underneath, revealing his lean but muscled body. The man did not seem bothered by the cold, and Jarod could count quite a few scars.

Jon also discarded his brigandine and clothing, revealing a just as powerful and lean body, albeit half a head shorter than his opponent, with quite a few scars that seemed to earn many appreciative glances. The bastard of Winterfell had always pushed himself more in their spars and training; he fought harder, trained harder, practised harder, and it showed.

The space around the bonfire was quickly cleared up for the fighters.

Styr Thenn did not wait long before rushing in, swinging heavily with his ham-like fists.

"We've never seen our chieftain," Duncan uttered that word with heavy amusement, "wrestle or fisticuffs."

"I don't think he'll have much trouble," Jarod chuckled, looking at how Jon efficiently weaved between the wildling's savage strikes.

Any master-at-arms worth his salt would train wrestling and grappling - a must-have skill against foes in heavy plate. Unarmed hand-to-hand was also rather popular amongst the young sons of the North, and looking at the young Snow, he excelled.

His punches were relentless, quick, and brutal and landed far more often than those of the wildling did.

Speed, skill, strength, experience - unsurprisingly, the Bastard of Winterfell lacked none of these, even with his fists.

Yet Jarod couldn't help but notice Jon was holding back - he was pulling his punches quite a bit. Not only that, but he avoided striking any places that would knock out his foe - the chin, temple, nose, liver, or the weak spot below the heart and, in turn, avoided getting hit in vital areas himself.

It took him a few moments, but the old bastard realised the young leader was both hiding the full extent of his prowess and letting Styr of the Thenns keep some dignity even in loss - it would indeed not do to sow resentment between those who would follow and fight with and for you.

The wildling chieftain took quite a bit of punishment before he began to heave like a tired mule after pulling a particularly heavy cart for hours through the mud. Surely enough, the younger Snow saw that and, with a swift punch, nicked Styr's chin, who wobbled for a handful of heartbeats before promptly collapsing in the cold slush.

Looking no worse for wear despite taking a few errant hits, Jon Snow fought four more challenges - all of them decided to try their luck with fisticuffs in a bid to avoid fighting the warg lord with a blade and risk their heads. Yet, it seemed that Ned Stark's son was no less devastating with his fist and won all the fights with little effort, though there was none maimed or killed this time, only bruises upon their pride and body.

Under Jarod's disbelieving eyes, the wildlings that mockingly called him kneeler yesterday were then swearing their loyalty. Mag the Mighty, the giant chieftain, had been convinced by Leaf to follow them, and with him, Styr, Tormund and scores of other chieftains, big and small, agreed to follow Jon.

Suddenly, Jon's modest warband had swelled from less than a hundred to nearly thirteen thousand.