Jon and his company remained in the Painted Dog Tribe for more than ten days.
He had left Riverrun even before Lady Catelyn Stark began her journey south. Unlike Jon, her path was long and winding. She would have to pass first through the Twins, then northward toward White Harbor, and finally travel south again along the eastern coast to reach Storm's End, where she sought an alliance with Renly Baratheon. By Jon's calculation, her journey could take three to five months at least.
He, however, had been gone less than a month. A delay of days in the mountains meant little in the greater scheme of things.
Still, the ten days were not idle. His greatest challenge was not the treacherous terrain or the hostile tribes—it was Sola.
The grass-circlet girl was far too enthusiastic. Bright-eyed, bold, and utterly fearless, she appeared wherever Jon went. She fetched him tea before the elders, stood at the door to listen when he spoke strategy, and even found excuses to walk with him among the stone huts. Her admiration was innocent yet overwhelming, and Jon could not help but feel a pang of awkwardness each time her gaze lingered on him longer than it should.
He kept his distance, answering her cheer with measured courtesy. For all his steel and discipline, Jon Snow found it easier to stare down an enemy's blade than a girl's unguarded affection.
The true reason for their long stay lay in Hughwolf's mission. Though the tribes were scattered across the same mountains, their distances were deceptive. Valleys and ridges stretched the paths into weeks of travel. With no ravens, no riders swift enough to cut the mountains in a straight line, Hughwolf had been forced to spend half his fortune coaxing other clans' elders to come.
At last, after two weeks of effort, more than ten representatives arrived. Some were gray-bearded chiefs, others scarred warriors, others still lean hunters who carried themselves with quiet authority. Their garments were plain, their weapons often bronze or bone, yet none of them were simple men.
Jon knew better than to underestimate them. Power in these mountains was carved not by lineage but by survival. To be an elder of any tribe meant one had outwitted hunger, war, and betrayal many times over.
He had prepared carefully for this meeting.
When the guests were seated in the Painted Dog hall, Jon's soldiers carried forward a curtain of rough cloth. On it were drawn crooked, hand-painted shapes. To an untrained eye, it looked little more than a child's scrawl.
Harken leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, sneering. "What's this? Does he think to convince hardened chiefs with a rag of nonsense?"
Sola, standing nearby, puffed up indignantly. "You don't know anything, Harken! I asked Lord Jon myself. He called it a… ra… ra-investment? And this thing is called a slideshow presentation!"
"Light? What light?" Harken muttered, bemused.
A Winterfell soldier set an oil lamp behind the curtain. The flickering flame revealed what the paint concealed: not patterns, but a map. Simple, yes, but it clearly marked the great rivers, castles, and territories of the Seven Kingdoms.
The hall grew quiet. Rough though it was, the painted map drew the eyes of every elder present.
Jon stepped forward, his voice firm. "I know you do not trust outsiders. It does not matter if you do not trust me. But hear this: disaster is coming. Your wives, your children, your lands—they will be taken from you."
The bluntness of his words sent a ripple through the crowd. Even Hughwolf's eyes widened in surprise.
A grizzled elder barked a laugh, turning on Hughwolf. "Did you drag us all this way just to hear an outsider boy's doom-talk?"
Hughwolf faltered, caught off guard. He had no answer.
Jon's voice cut through. "Tell me, Elder, do you truly believe you can defeat your rivals once they arm themselves with better weapons? The tribes who have already bent knee to the Lannisters—Black Ear, Scorching Tribe—once they grow stronger with western steel, will they not return here to take your homes?"
He raised his voice, letting it carry. Sometimes sheer force of tone won more ground than reason. And indeed, the hall quieted again, all eyes drawn back to him.
Sola clasped her hands, her eyes shining as though she were watching a hero from a song.
The skeptical elder narrowed his eyes. "So you've come to help us, then?"
"No," Jon said, his voice ringing. "Only you can help yourselves."
He moved to the map, pointing to the line of the Green Fork. "Here. The iron-skinned wolves from the North and the lions from the West met in battle. Neither claimed victory. But while we fought, the great lord of the wolf was struck down in King's Landing. That death will ignite a war greater than any you've seen."
His words painted the conflict vividly: banners clashing, kings rising, betrayals festering. The mountain elders, who had seen little beyond their valleys, listened as though spellbound. Even Harken, whose pride had soured at every mention of Jon, leaned forward unconsciously.
"The deer of the South, the eagle of the Vale, the flowers of the Reach—they will rise against the lion. Surrounded on all sides, the lion must fall. But here, near you, they still hold strength. If you join us and fight, when victory comes, the lands of the tribes who chose the Lannisters will become yours. If you stand idle, they will take yours instead. Only you can choose."
Sola could no longer contain herself. She pumped her fist and cried, "Good!" Her clear voice echoed off the cave walls, earning chuckles from the soldiers.
Jon continued, every word sharpened by experience from another life. He had once stood before investors with only ideas and charts; now he stood before warriors with steel and fire. The skills were not so different. He spoke simply, vividly, never lingering long on one point, always striking where fear and desire met.
Old York, standing at his side, stroked his chin. The boy could charm a king out of his crown, he thought.
At last, murmurs rose among the elders. The logic was plain enough: fight now and win land for their children, or wait and see their children enslaved.
Yet the first elder was not done. His voice cut through the whispers. "Your tale is fine, boy. But how do we know it's true? You ask us to risk everything. Why should we trust your words?"
Jon's answer was quiet but struck like a hammer. "Because the great lord of the wolf—the one slain in King's Landing—was my father."
A silence fell. In the mountains, family was everything. The image of a son fighting not for gold, not for conquest, but for vengeance and duty, struck deep. Even Harken's hostility dimmed, his eyes narrowing in reluctant respect.
Sola, of course, was already near tears. To her, Jon was no longer merely strong—he was tragic, noble, heroic. Her gaze lingered on him with open adoration.
But the elder pressed again, voice sharp. "So you are the son of a lord. Then why not capture you now? Ransom you to your enemies. With your life, we could trade for steel and grain without shedding a drop of blood."
The mood shifted instantly. Several warriors rose, hands on weapons. Eyes gleamed with calculation. The Painted Dogs had no guest right, no sacred oath to protect a man under their roof.
Old York's hand went to his hilt, sweat beading on his brow. The Winterfell soldiers tensed, blades half-drawn.
Jon stepped forward, brushing aside the man who tried to shield him. He drew his longsword in one smooth motion, the steel flashing bright in the firelight.
"There are many bastards of great lords," Jon said coldly. "My head is worth little. If you try to take it, you will find the price is many of your own lives."
The silence that followed was heavy, brittle.
"Don't!"
A sudden voice broke it. Sola leapt forward, planting herself between Jon and the circle of elders. Her arms spread wide, her small frame a fragile shield. "You cannot harm him!"
For a heartbeat, the hall froze in astonishment.
"Sola—" Harken's voice cracked. He surged forward, panic flickering across his face. To see the girl he cared for risk herself so openly for Jon twisted his heart like a knife.
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