Sola was known throughout ten miles and eight villages as the Painted Dog Tribe's prettiest flower. Even among the mountain clans, where beauty often bowed to strength, her face and bright spirit were admired. And she was no common girl—she was the daughter of Elder Vido himself.
So when she stepped forward to shield Jon Snow from the threats of hardened warriors, even the elder who had been challenging Jon could not help but laugh.
"Ha! Vido, your daughter is truly… outgoing," he said, his wolfish grin flashing in the firelight.
Vido's jaw tightened. Though he said nothing, displeasure flickered across his face. A father's instinct stirred in him—protective, but also frustrated. He had long intended to marry Sola to Harken. Such a match would strengthen his authority in the tribe. Now his daughter's obvious favor toward an outsider risked unraveling those plans.
At the side, Harken's face told its own tale. Astonishment, frustration, and bitterness warred across his features. For the first time, he seemed unsure whether to reach for his weapon or hide his shame.
"Sola! Step back!" Vido barked.
"Father…" She blinked her wide blue eyes, pleading.
Hughwolf chuckled quietly at the scene, finding the drama amusing. In truth, it suited him. If Jon won Sola's favor, Harken would lose his future claim to her—and to power in the tribe. That would weaken Vido's position and strengthen Hughwolf's own.
Old York, watching from the corner, felt both surprise and unease. He was an old man, cunning enough to know the weight of appearances. His own daughter's looks paled beside Sola's, and now the girl had boldly thrown herself in Jon's defense. A son of the North, raised without a mother, might be especially vulnerable to such direct affection. York's mind whirred. Perhaps I should prepare a larger dowry for my granddaughter?
Then he shook his head. Fool. What are you thinking? This is not the time for marriage games—this is life and death.
The tense silence broke when the challenging elder suddenly burst into laughter.
"Hahaha! You're truly something, boy. You've only been here a handful of days, and already you've caught the brightest flower of the Mountain Clans."
He slapped his thigh, then leaned forward. "My name is Chick. And you are Jon, yes?"
Jon inclined his head. "Yes, Elder Chick."
Chick's long, narrow eyes gleamed with the cunning of a fox—or perhaps a wolf. But then, in a gesture both strange and deliberate, he drove his sword into the ground and sat back down.
"I am no elder," Chick said flatly. "But I say this: I think we can trust this young man."
The other representatives exchanged glances. Their suspicions had been high, sharpened by Hughwolf's sudden eagerness to support Jon. But the raw emotion they had seen—Sola's protectiveness, Harken's jealousy, Vido's anger—none of that could be staged. The scene had rung true.
They nodded one by one, their suspicion easing.
In truth, Chick had feared a deeper plot—that the Painted Dog Tribe and Jon were conspiring together, trying to entrap the other clans. Hughwolf's excessive efforts to gather them had almost convinced him of it. But now, after watching the unguarded reactions, Chick decided this outsider was genuine.
One by one, the tribal leaders sat again. Old York exhaled softly, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. Thank the gods, he thought. For a moment he had been certain they would all draw blades.
He glanced sidelong at Jon, expecting some trace of relief. But Jon's face was as calm as ever, his gray eyes cool, his expression unchanged. It was as though none of this rattled him. That calm stirred another thought in York's mind: Is my granddaughter even worthy of him?
Jon Snow, bastard or not, was extraordinary. His martial skill was unmatched, his wit sharp, his courage steady. If any lord of the North—or even the South—had such an heir, they would count themselves blessed beyond measure.
Perhaps, York mused bitterly, this was some cruel jest of the gods: to grant such talent to a bastard who could claim nothing by name.
---
The storm of suspicion had passed, but Jon was not yet victorious. The elders leaned forward again, this time with sharper eyes.
"You've spoken well," Chick said. "But words are wind. How will you prove you can lead our warriors to victory?"
Sola inhaled, ready to blurt out He defeated Harken! but her father's hand shot out, silencing her with a glare.
Another chief spoke, his tone skeptical. "Jon, I have seen the Lannister host with my own eyes. Their soldiers choke the valleys, their banners blot out the sun. You have brought what? A handful of men. How should we entrust our clans to you? We fight each other to the death for a single well, a stream, or a wild boar. How will you command us, when we are not united even among ourselves?"
Jon's voice was calm. "Elder Chick, state your demand. I will meet it, if it lies within my power."
Chick leaned back, his eyes gleaming. "Then prove yourself."
Jon suppressed a sigh. Men like Chick delighted in tests, trials, and gauntlets. But before he could respond, Hughwolf rose from his seat, his voice carrying.
"Gentlemen, I have a suggestion."
All eyes turned to him. Jon's most of all. Hughwolf always seemed to appear at pivotal moments—offering help, smoothing paths. That in itself was suspicious. For in Jon's experience, men who gave too freely always hid sharper knives.
Hughwolf spread his hands. "All of you know of Hidden Fire Peak. Long ago, our first Fire Witch dwelt there. But a century past, the mountain collapsed, and the path to its summit was destroyed. No man has climbed it in a hundred years. If Jon can ascend Hidden Fire Peak, then surely the Gods of the Mountains and the Moon themselves acknowledge him. Surely, then, our warriors would follow him without question."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
Jon raised his brows. A mountain climb? That was the trial?
But Sola's face paled. She had grown up on these stories. The collapse had left Hidden Fire Peak's face sheer as glass. No path remained, only cliffs nearly vertical, impossible to climb. Men who tried had fallen to their deaths, their bones shattered on the rocks below.
"Agreed!" Chick said at once, his sharp grin returning. "If he can climb, he has my respect."
"I agree," another elder said.
"As do I," said a third. "If the gods acknowledge him, so must we."
One by one, the voices joined until the decision was unanimous.
Hughwolf clapped his hands. "Then it is decided. I will be Jon's witness. The rest of you may watch from the western hillside. Jon, when you reach the summit, light a bonfire so all may see."
Jon stared at him, expression unreadable. No, Hughwolf. You test me, but I have not yet agreed.
He rose to his feet, his voice steady. "Elders, I am but a bastard. I do not believe myself stronger than all your warriors. Perhaps I can climb, perhaps not. Let me see Hidden Fire Peak with my own eyes first, then I will decide."
Chick's eyes flickered with approval. "Good. A cautious man I can trust more than a brash one."
So, led by Vido, the gathering moved to a hillside overlooking the Painted Dog lands. There, looming against the sky, stood Hidden Fire Peak.
Jon saw it instantly. Even among the mountains, it was unmistakable. A towering giant, its east side looked as though some god's axe had cleaved it clean. The cliff face was smooth, sheer, rising at nearly ninety degrees into the clouds.
"That is Hidden Fire Peak," Hughwolf said, his voice carrying pride.
Jon narrowed his eyes, studying every jagged edge and shadow. He had climbed ice walls at the Wall, faced blizzards that could strip a man's skin. But this was no wall of ice—it was stone, sheer and unbroken.
"How can that be climbed?" Old York blurted, unable to hold his tongue. His voice trembled with disbelief.
Chick smirked. "Well, boy? If you cannot, it's no shame. Give up now." His tone was playful, but his eyes glittered with challenge.
Hughwolf, by contrast, looked tense. His entire scheme rested on Jon attempting the climb. If Jon refused, all his careful work to bring the tribes together would collapse.
Jon gazed at the peak for a long moment, silent. His mind calculated angles, handholds, the limits of his own strength. The mountain was a test of more than muscle—it was will, balance, endurance..
Then, in the quiet of his heart, the familiar words whispered:
Remaining upgrades: 2.
Jon exhaled, decision firming in his chest.
"I will try."
---
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