Two days later, the Northern camp stirred with sudden commotion. A band of two hundred men marched back through its gates, mud-caked and weary yet alive.These were Old York's men—the detachment sent to breach the dam. Word spread quickly of their deed: they had succeeded, unleashing the flood that had turned the battle.When the returning soldiers entered, the camp erupted with cheers."Well done, old knight!""Glory to you, and to Lord Jon!""Heroes, all of you!"Rough hands clapped shoulders, mugs of watered wine were pressed into palms, and men who had stared death in the face now laughed with raw relief.Old York basked in their praise, his leathery face cracking into a wide smile. The sneers he had once cast Jon Snow's way faded from memory, replaced by genuine pride. But as he asked after the full battle report, his joy turned to shock.What was this? Jon hadn't just flooded the field—he had ridden into the rout itself? He had gathered scattered remnants, rallied them, and led a counterattack?And what was this madness about the lords wanting to make Jon commander of the whole host?He refused?York nearly dropped his mug. The bastard boy had turned down power freely offered? He, who had once been scorned as less than nothing?By the time he learned Jon was in the prisoner-of-war camp, Old York was already hurrying across camp to see for himself.---Jon, meanwhile, was indeed among the captives—but not as one of them. He was sifting through the Westerlander prisoners, looking for those of value. And in the process, he found something far greater than he had expected.A treasure.The man before him was short-necked, flabby-cheeked, and pale as spoiled milk. His piggish eyes darted nervously as Jon studied him."Amory Locke," Jon murmured.The name was infamous. A vassal of the Westerlands, Amory had followed Tywin Lannister into King's Landing during Robert's Rebellion. To prove his loyalty, he had committed a crime that stained both gods and men.He had butchered Princess Rhaenys Targaryen—Rhaegar's daughter—no older than six. The child's body had been left broken and bloodied, wrapped in crimson cloth by Tywin himself before being presented to Robert Baratheon as proof of loyalty.Rhaenys' mother, Elia of Dorne, sister to Prince Doran and to Oberyn—the Red Viper—had fared no better. She had been raped and murdered by Gregor Clegane, the Mountain.The Martells had never forgotten. They still dreamed of vengeance, the Mountain's head first on their list. But Amory Locke's name was carved into theirs as well.And Jon, standing there, realized with a cold shiver—Rhaenys had been his half-sister. They had shared Rhaegar's blood.This was no ordinary captive. This was a bargaining chip. A weapon. A chance at justice.Jon's lips curled into something that was not quite a smile.Amory felt the weight of Jon's stare and squirmed. He licked his lips, forced a bow, and croaked, "My Lord, I am of House Locke. My kin will ransom me with at least a thousand gold dragons. But your heroism on the field… it impressed me greatly. I will offer more. Two thousand. Perhaps three."Jon tilted his head. His voice was calm, almost kind. "No, Lord Locke. You are worth at least ten thousand."Amory blanched, his pig eyes going wide. Ten thousand? He had nowhere near such wealth. His mouth opened, stammering.Jon cut him off with a single order. "Cut his right Achilles tendon. Guard him closely."The words struck like lightning."No! No, my Lord!" Amory screamed, flailing, sweat pouring down his pale face. "I'll pay! I'll pay ten thousand!"The guards hesitated, glancing back at Jon.Jon's eyes were hard as iron. "Cut it."Steel flashed, a scream tore the air, and Amory Locke collapsed into a sobbing heap, crippled.Around them, other captives recoiled in horror. The message was clear. None would dare defy Jon Snow.Jon turned away, cold satisfaction simmering. This was justice, in part, for Rhaenys—for the sister he had never met. And it was precaution too: a man with severed tendons would never run far, no matter what tricks he tried.Yet Jon's thoughts were already racing further. If Amory Locke might fetch ten thousand from Dorne, what price would they pay for the Mountain? Oberyn Martell might give his very life—or more—for such a prize.The idea stirred like fire in Jon's mind.---That was when Old York stormed in, drawn by the commotion. He froze at the sight of Locke's bloody heel, then frowned deeply."My Lord," York said gruffly, "Amory Locke is a nobleman. If word spreads you crippled him, many in the realm will say you dishonor your station. Allow me—say that it was I, an old knight near sixty, who ordered it."Jon studied him. The same Old York who had once mocked him so freely now offered himself as a shield, willing to take the blame. His tone was no longer arrogant, but respectful, even deferential.Jon shook his head slowly. "No. I sought only justice for Princess Rhaenys, murdered so cruelly. Not for politics. I cannot abide this man's filth."York hesitated, then nodded. Once he understood who Locke truly was, he voiced no more protest. Instead he praised Jon's boldness, his keen judgment, his hatred of evil. His words were honey now, where once they had been barbed.Jon listened, unreadable, then moved on.---The prisoner camp held others of interest as well. Unlike Amory Locke, who had been dragged out, the mountain clansmen had requested an audience with Jon themselves.When Jon arrived, he found them arranged strangely. They had formed a tight circle, bodies pressed close, creating a wall of flesh. At its center, someone was hidden, shielded from all eyes.Jon's brows rose. That was no ordinary captive. Likely a leader."The one you seek is here," a soldier announced.The circle parted, and out stepped a tall, broad-shouldered woman clad in rough furs sewn from animal hides. She carried herself with an air of authority, her eyes steady as she knelt abruptly before Jon.It startled him. These were mountain folk, wild and proud, contemptuous of southern customs. For one to kneel so readily meant desperation."My Lord," she said, "one of ours is gravely injured. We beg you to save her."At her signal, the wall of bodies shifted, revealing a figure behind them. A woman, pale as snow, her hair shockingly white, lay on the ground.Jon frowned. "Bring her closer. Let me see.""She cannot be moved," the kneeling woman said quickly, shaking her head.Jon stepped forward, ignoring the tense hands of his guards reaching for their swords. He waved them back, crouched, and looked closer.At first he had expected some elder priestess, frail with age. Instead, the face that met him was young. Startlingly young. Her hair, pale as moonlight, shimmered faintly even in the dim light. If she had been fed better, nourished well, her hair might have shone silver.Not only Targaryens bore silver hair, but in Westeros, the sight always evoked them first. Yet Jon knew of no record of a Targaryen child stolen north. Some illness, perhaps? he wondered.Her back bore a terrible sword wound. It had missed her organs, but the gash was deep and ragged, a nest for infection. Blood loss had left her skin white as parchment.Jon's mouth tightened. Even with the best maester, her chances were slim.Before he could refuse, the kneeling woman pressed on. "If you heal her, we will serve you. Whether she lives or dies, we will give you a gift beyond price. The world has already…"But before she could finish, the pale-haired woman stirred weakly. Her lips parted in a cough, her eyes flickering open just long enough to signal desperately—stop.The effort nearly killed her. She collapsed again, unconscious.Jon's interest sharpened. There was more here than met the eye."Bring a stretcher," Jon ordered his men. "Get her to a maester."The soldiers moved at once, lifting her with care.Jon watched her carried away, his mind turning over what he had seen. A hidden secret among the mountain clans. A promise of some "great gift." A silver-haired girl with a wound that might yet kill her.What secrets did she carry? What fortune might she hold?Jon did not know. But he would find out..
Øóffer going on for diamond tier
pàtreøn (Gk31)
Grab the offer soon it's going to end