The Painted Dog Tribe, one of the strongest among the Mountain Clans, prided itself on its traditions. Their council hall reflected both their strength and their simplicity.
Jon was led into a semi-cave-like chamber carved into the mountain's side. Firelight filled the space, dancing across rough-hewn stone walls. In the center, a large fire pit roared, and over it hung a bronze pot big enough to feed dozens. The smell of meat boiling in broth drifted through the chamber, mingling with the smoke.
It was only as Jon watched the elders prepare the meal that he truly grasped the poverty and resourcefulness of the clan. In Winterfell, roasted meats sizzled over spits, fat dripping carelessly into the flames. Here, not a drop was wasted. Every bit of grease was precious, carefully caught in the pot and slurped down with pride. For these people, fat was life.
The three elders of the tribe—Vido, Hughwolf, and another greybeard whose name Jon had not yet caught—sat with him around the fire. Harken, still seething from his earlier defeat, sat off to the side. His eyes followed Sola, the grass-circlet girl, as she moved gracefully between them, pouring tea into wooden cups. His silence spoke more loudly than any words.
Jon accepted a cup from her hands and inclined his head politely. "Thank you."
Sola blushed, caught off guard by his courtesy. Her ears turned red, and though she tried to hide it, the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. For a girl of the mountains, even a small gesture of respect from an outsider lord was enough to stir her heart.
Vido cleared his throat. "So these iron-skinned men who recruited our warriors before—this 'Lannister'—they will fail soon?"
Jon nodded. "Yes. The Lannisters are powerful, but even their strength has limits. They have provoked too many great houses at once. To use a simpler example: the Painted Dog Tribe is strong. Yet if every tribe in these mountains united against you, could you stand alone? The Lannisters have made themselves enemies on all sides."
The words struck home. Vido and Hughwolf exchanged a long glance. Perhaps their decision to hesitate, to wait and watch, had been fortunate. Had they already bent the knee to Lannister gold, their fate might now be tied to a sinking ship.
Vido exhaled slowly. "Lord Jon, we understand your meaning. Since this is the Fire Witch's will, we are willing to follow you. But there are concerns. Our grain is scarce. Our weapons… poor."
Jon leaned forward. "Do not worry. I will supply you with better than the Lannisters ever offered. They gave you castoffs, broken blades and rusting armor. I will arm you with steel taken from their own soldiers—spoils of victory. As for food, Winterfell's stores will supply your people."
Vido's eyes softened, relief flickering across his stern face. Yet before Jon could speak further, Hughwolf reached into the boiling pot with his bare hand.
Jon blinked in shock. The elder plunged his arm elbow-deep into the bubbling broth, fished out a thick slab of meat streaked with fat, and laid it steaming on the table before Jon as though it were nothing.
"Good heavens," Jon muttered under his breath. The man's hand was red, but he showed no sign of pain. An iron hand indeed.
"I will help you, Lord Jon," Hughwolf said with a grin. "The other tribes will not be easy to sway. They live far apart, they distrust outsiders, and many of them are bitter rivals even among themselves. But I will carry your word to them."
Jon inclined his head respectfully. "Then I thank you, Elder. How should I address you properly?"
The old man laughed, his voice booming through the hall. "Call me Hughwolf."
Jon repeated it. "Very well—Elder Hughwolf."
Sola, hovering nearby, spoke softly, her eyes shining with admiration. "Elder Hughwolf is the most heat-resistant of our tribe."
Hughwolf chuckled. "Bah, a useless trick. Heat resistance is not worth much compared to Lord Jon's swordplay."
At that, all eyes turned to Harken. The young warrior hunched lower, savaging the meat in his hands as if it were Jon's own flesh. His pride still stung.
Despite the tension, the atmosphere around the fire grew warmer. The Painted Dogs had accepted Jon, at least for now. The food and tea were offered freely, the elders listened to his words, and Hughwolf had volunteered to undertake the dangerous task of contacting other tribes.
Yet Jon did not let himself relax. He had lived a lifetime in another world, and that life had taught him: every gift had its price. Fate never handed out favors without demand. Why would Hughwolf help him so eagerly? What did the old man truly want?
Jon's thoughts wandered—unbidden—to Roslin Frey. For her, perhaps, he might believe in selfless affection. But Hughwolf? Never.
Suppressing the stray thought, Jon turned back to the elders, continuing the discussion until the fire burned low.
---
Later that night, as Jon was shown to his lodging, Old York leaned close. His eyes, sharp despite age, glittered in the firelight.
"My lord," he whispered, "beware of Hughwolf. That one smiles too easily."
Jon only smiled faintly. "Your wisdom is noted, York."
But the old man was not finished. His expression shifted, sly. "Still… I noticed something else. That little Sola seems quite taken with you."
Jon frowned. "Girls of her age are quick to admire."
York wagged a finger. "No, no. You're wrong. You're young, strong, skilled in battle, with the bearing of a lord. Do you think only a mountain girl would be drawn to you? Even noble ladies of the Seven Kingdoms would. Tell me honestly, have you ever—"
"Sir York," Jon interrupted sharply, "we are here to win allies, not to find me a wife. If you cannot keep your tongue to serious matters, I may send you back to Winterfell."
York chuckled, unrepentant, though he leaned back with mock defeat. "As you say, my lord. But still… she's a fine girl. Top five, if you ask me."
Jon rolled his eyes but said no more.
---
Elsewhere in the Painted Dog village, Hughwolf was not resting. He sorted through his few belongings—travel gear, a heavy cloak, small gifts for barter. His son hovered nearby, frowning.
"Father, why?" the young man asked at last. "Why help that outsider? He's not one of us."
Hughwolf paused, then looked his son in the eye. "Because you are young and blind. Did you not see? Jon is unlike any man we've met. His strength is beyond ours. I believe he is the one destined to climb Canghuo Peak."
His son stiffened, awe creeping into his features. "Canghuo Peak… the Hidden Fire Peak?"
Hughwolf nodded solemnly. "For a hundred years, none have succeeded. But Jon—Jon may be the one. And if he claims the treasure that lies there, not just the Painted Dogs, but all the Mountain Clans—and perhaps the Vale itself—could belong to us."
"The Vale…" The boy whispered the words as though they were too large to hold in his mouth. His eyes widened, as though glimpsing a future too vast to imagine.
"But Father," he asked, voice trembling, "what treasure waits on Canghuo Peak?"
Hughwolf's gaze turned toward the distant mountain ridges silhouetted in the moonlight. His voice dropped low, reverent, as though naming a god.
"One that can change the fate of kingdoms."
---
70 Øóffer going on for diamond tier
pàtreøn (Gk31)
Final Reminder
Grab the offer soon it's going to end If you buy diamond tier you will able to access all my stories