No one wept for Hughwolf.
His death, though bloody, was accepted almost as if it had been inevitable. In the Painted Dog Tribe, men rose and fell like waves crashing against the mountains. His passing meant only one thing: his possessions—his hut, his weapons, even his wife and daughter—would now pass into Elder Vido's hands. Such was the way of their people.
For Jon Snow, Hughwolf's demise was little more than a shadow in the past. His attention turned toward the feast Vido organized in his honor. It was not grand by the standards of lords in Winterfell or Riverrun—no gilded plates or delicate wines. Instead, there were simple offerings: boiled venison, wild herbs stewed into broth, and baskets of late-season berries. Yet in this raw hall of stone and timber, with firelight flickering across the faces of warriors, it felt like something more.
At the head of the long table sat Jon, a guest of honor transformed into something greater. His forehead had been marked with a painted crescent moon, and across his chest the image of a fierce dog had been drawn in dark pigment. These symbols, ancient to the Painted Dog Tribe, marked him not as an outsider but as one who had earned the respect of the gods of mountain and moon.
Around him, the elders and representatives from other clans regarded him with new eyes. Awe, reverence, even a touch of fear—these emotions colored their gazes. Jon had ascended Hidden Fire Peak where no man had climbed in a century. He had returned alive, triumphant, bearing proof of his feat. To them, it was no longer merely Jon of the North; it was Jon who had been acknowledged by the gods.
One by one, the chiefs pledged their support.
Qi Ke rose first, his voice firm:
"My Mist People will give three hundred warriors to Lord Jon!"
Another stood, his hand upon his chest:
"Our Howling Mountain tribe will give two hundred and forty warriors!"
"Our Blocked Stream tribe will send four hundred!"
Voices rose from across the hall, each more eager than the last, each name added to the tally. Before long, the combined strength of those pledging to Jon exceeded two thousand men. Warriors who had once feuded over streams and hunting grounds were now offering themselves to him.
Jon listened carefully, weighing the significance. Two thousand men was no small number, yet he knew too well the challenge ahead. These tribes had spent generations locked in endless skirmishes. Their warriors were fierce, but discipline was absent. Unity was fragile. To mold them into an army would demand not only patience but also victories—swift, undeniable victories.
Rules, rewards, punishments—he could craft those. But he also knew the truth: no cohesion problem could survive the fire of triumph. Victory, and only victory, was the glue that bound men together.
He lifted a horn of rough-brewed wine and drank deeply. Then he rose, his voice carrying through the hall.
"Hear me well! I promise every man who fights for me will wear armor, not rags. After we win our battles, the armor will be yours to keep. And I swear this as well—together we will conquer other tribes. But know this: if any warrior breaks ranks or flees in battle, I will show no mercy. I will cut down cowards with my own hand."
Once, Jon would never have dared such words. But now, with the mark of Hidden Fire Peak upon his brow, he saw no hesitation in their eyes. They believed.
Yet even as the pledges filled the air, Qi Ke once again stepped forward. His expression was heavy, and his steps echoed like drums. The hall stilled, sensing the weight of what he carried.
"Lord Jon," Qi Ke began. "Do you know why we are called the Mountain Clans?"
Jon's brow furrowed. That title had always seemed obvious. Before he could answer, Old York—already flushed with wine—slurred, "Because you live on the mountains?"
A faint smile tugged at Qi Ke's lips. "No," he said, and then his voice rang loud and clear. "It is because we were driven to the mountains."
Murmurs rippled through the gathering.
Qi Ke pressed on, his gaze fixed on Jon. "The Andals came, with their iron and their seven gods. They drove out the First Men who had lived here since the world was young, who had dwelt with giants and with the Children of the Forest. The North alone remained unconquered, the last refuge of the First Men. But here in the Vale, we were hunted, pushed higher and higher, until only the mountains remained to us. That is why we are called the Mountain Clans."
The hall grew hushed, the truth of the past heavy in the firelit air.
"Life in these peaks is cruel," Qi Ke continued. "Out of ten children born, perhaps only one grows to adulthood. Few among us have ever seen their grandfather's face—death takes us too early. We are a people starved of time. Lord Jon, if you win lands of your own, we beg you: protect us. Let us live not as raiders, but as men. Please—accept our fealty."
With those words, Qi Ke dropped to his knees.
The hall erupted in gasps.
Even Old York blinked in astonishment. To hear one of these proud mountain chiefs call an outsider "lord" was beyond belief.
But Qi Ke was not alone. Vido, too, lowered himself to the ground. One by one, the others followed, kneeling in the dirt before Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell.
Jon's chest tightened. He had expected alliance, not allegiance. He had thought this would be a bargain struck and forgotten, not a binding of lives and oaths.
For a long moment he said nothing. The faces before him were raw with desperation, hope, and fear. They were a people abandoned by history, yearning for a future.
At last, he rose slowly, his voice carrying with steady conviction.
"I, Jon Snow, if ever I gain lands of my own, I will accept your fealty. I will guard you as my people, and I will give you protection. This I swear."
The words fell heavy, shaping a new bond between them.
Old York, watching from the side, felt his understanding of the world tilt. A bastard with no land, no title, now stood as liege lord to tens of thousands. And yet… York remembered Jon's words on the road: If you keep your land but lose your people, you lose both land and people. But if you keep your people, you may win land again.
Perhaps, York thought, the boy is right. Perhaps people are more important than soil.
Still, one question burned in his mind: Where will Jon's land be?
---
The pledges of loyalty smoothed Jon's path with the tribes. The task of reorganizing the two thousand men should have been daunting, yet the respect born of Hidden Fire Peak and the oaths sworn that night gave him authority unlike any commander before.
The problem, however, lay in officers. The tribes knew nothing of formations or strategy. Their battles were little more than frenzied charges, blood and chaos without order. Tyrion Lannister had used them as fodder, thrown forward to die for the lion's banners.
Jon could not. He needed an army, not expendable bodies.
So he chose what he could—twenty-odd men, the fiercest fighters among them, naming them centurions. They were no trained knights, but among their people, strength meant respect. It would be enough, for now.
With time—six months, perhaps—Jon could forge them into a true host. In three months, he might fashion them into an army fit to rival any lord of Westeros. But time was his enemy. He had scarcely weeks before the world shifted again. For now, he drilled them in the simplest formations, teaching them to move as one. It was a beginning.
When the army at last marched from the Painted Dog lands, it was like a river flowing down the mountainside, rough and wild but undeniably mighty.
Vido stood beside Qi Ke, watching the men vanish into the valleys. His face was grim.
"When you return," he said quietly, "move our people deeper into the mountains. The Vale lords will soon learn our warriors are gone. When they come, we cannot resist them."
Qi Ke nodded. "Our lives now rest in Jon's hands."
And so it was. The clans had staked everything—their warriors, their future, their very survival—on the bastard son of Winterfell.
--
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