In the Mountains of the Moon, even communication between neighboring tribes was limited. Outsiders were almost unheard of, so Jon's appearance at the Painted Dog Tribe's gate was enough to draw a crowd.
At first, it was women and children who came. The children peeked timidly from behind their mothers' skirts, wide-eyed at the strangers in steel and leather. The women whispered to one another, pointing at Jon's group, their voices mingling with nervous giggles. A few of the bolder girls even laughed outright, curious at the pale faces and fine steel weapons the men carried.
The Winterfell soldiers ignored the stares. Their ambitions lay far from mountain villages—they dreamed of noble brides and castles, not wildling maidens who lived in huts of stone and timber.
The older veterans of the mountain clans were less indifferent. Their eyes softened at the sight of the children, but age had already slowed their bodies. Though willing, they lacked the vigor they once carried.
Then the crowd parted. A girl with a circlet of grass woven into her dark hair stepped forward. She was young, bright-eyed, her curiosity unrestrained as she studied Jon. Her gaze lingered on his sword and armor, marks of power far removed from her tribe's crude bronze blades.
But the murmurs fell silent as the tribe's leader spoke. His voice was sharp, commanding.
"Outlander, you abducted our Fire Witch, and yet you dare step into our land? Do you not fear death?"
The air grew taut. Mothers pulled children back. Men armed with bronze short swords, spears, and even farm tools stepped forward, forming a barrier between Jon's group and the village.
Harken, the young warrior who had already taunted Jon outside, laid his hand on the hilt of his knife, itching for a fight.
Jon's own soldiers reacted instantly. The Winterfell men and mountain veterans drew their steel, circling Jon and Old York in a defensive ring. For a moment, no one moved, but the smell of blood already seemed to hang in the air.
Jon's eyes narrowed. By his reckoning, there should be no hatred between them. He had met their Fire Witch on the battlefield, yes, but he had spared her life, healed her wounds, and allowed her to live. Kuno herself had come willingly as his guide. If anything, their tribe should feel gratitude, not hostility.
So why call for blood?
Jon reached out with God's Perspective, his strange gift, and swept the surroundings. No hidden ambush waited in the woods or behind the huts. That alone told him this was not a true attack. If the Painted Dog Tribe had meant to kill him, they would have drawn him inside, offered him food and fire, and cut his throat while he slept.
No—this was a test.
Jon's gaze slid to Kuno. Even she looked bewildered at the leader's words.
He stepped forward, his voice calm but edged.
"Respected elder, I defeated your warriors in battle, yes. But I spared your Fire Witch and saw her wounds healed. I am here at her invitation. If this is how you treat guests, then we will leave at once. And if we leave, you will find you cannot stop us."
His soldiers raised their blades higher, steel flashing in the sun.
The bold words only inflamed Harken. He grinned fiercely, turning to the elders.
"Elder Vido! Elder Huwulf! These iron-skinned outsiders are liars. Give me leave to duel him. If I win, he must return the Fire Witch. If he refuses, we kill them all!"
"Yes! Return her!" Harken's brothers and companions echoed, their shouts rising into the mountain air.
Kuno's voice cut through the noise. "Enough, Harken! The Fire Witch's life was spared by Lord Jon's own hand. Without him, she would be ash in the wind!"
But Harken only snorted. "I trust no iron-skinned man. Only my sword decides truth. What say you, outlander? Will you face me?"
Jon turned to the two elders. Neither raised a hand to forbid the duel. The older, Vido, met his gaze evenly.
"It is true our Fire Witch is alive because of you," Vido said. "But if you ask our tribe to follow you, then show us strength. We have seen the iron-skinned lords' armies. Their banners darken the sky, their soldiers march without end. If we join you only to be led to slaughter, better we abandon the Fire Witch entirely. She would agree, if she truly cared for our people."
Jon inclined his head slightly. So the Fire Witch was more symbol than commander, a totem that bound the Painted Dogs together. If he wanted their loyalty, he must prove himself not by words but by strength.
Harken smirked, sensing victory. "Come then! Fight me, if you dare!"
The girl with the grass circlet leaned forward in anticipation, her eyes flickering between Jon and Harken.
Old York barked a laugh. "Fight you? Hah! Our lord could piss with one hand and swat you down with the other."
Harken's eyes blazed. "Then let him prove it!" He ripped his bronze sword from its sheath, raising it high.
Jon sighed and unbuckled his armor. "Someone take this," he told his men. "If I fight you in full steel, you'll claim I won by iron alone. I won't give you that excuse."
Harken sneered. "Stripping off your skin? I hope you've no regrets."
The duel began.
---
They faced one another in the dusty square of the Painted Dog village. Jon held a longsword of Winterfell steel, its edge gleaming. Harken gripped a bronze short sword, the metal greenish with age but still deadly in skilled hands.
Jon's blade was longer, his stance calm. He tilted the sword forward. "Do you want to borrow mine? At least then you'll have a fair reach."
Harken spat. "I'll carve you with my own steel."
With a roar, he lunged. His blade cut through the air—fast, wild, full of fury.
But Jon moved like a shadow. His form blurred, and in an instant his longsword pressed cold against Harken's throat. The younger man froze, eyes wide.
The onlookers gasped. The two elders leaned forward, eyes bright with shock. Even Kuno's lips parted.
Jon had not even seemed to move.
Harken's pride screamed in protest. He knocked Jon's blade aside, twisting into a sweeping strike, hoping to catch him unguarded.
"Shameless!" Old York shouted. "A coward's blow!"
But Jon was already gone, his sword flashing again. The bronze weapon rang as it was knocked from Harken's hand, clattering into the dust. Jon's blade hovered at his chest, the point steady as a hawk's gaze.
Twice defeated.
Elder Huwulf's eyes gleamed, not with anger but with delight. This was no ordinary outlander—this was the kind of strength the Painted Dogs had prayed for.
Jon's voice was quiet but carried across the square.
"Do you want to continue?"
To Harken, the words were humiliation itself. Heat burned his face, spreading down his neck, while Jon's soldiers cheered behind him. The cheers stung worse than the blade—mocking, jeering, pouring shame over his pride.
"Again!" Harken bellowed.
But before he could lift his weapon, the grass-circlet girl stepped forward, voice ringing.
"Harken! Will you shame the Painted Dog Tribe before all?" She turned to the elders, her voice pleading. "Father, make him stop!"
Vido raised his hand. "Enough. Stand down, Harken."
The young warrior froze, anguish twisting his features. He looked at the girl—his Sora—and the disappointment in her eyes broke something in him. Slowly, unwillingly, he sheathed his blade.
Jon lowered his sword, his gaze cool.
"Now, Elders," he said evenly, "can we speak of cooperation?"
The Painted Dogs had seen his strength. And Jon Snow knew strength was the only language they truly trusted.
---
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