After Jon agreed to attempt the climb of Hidden Fire Peak, the elders and tribal representatives chose to remain in the Painted Dog Tribe. None of them wished to travel back and forth until the outcome was decided. The trial was too significant, and the fate of alliances too precarious to risk missing it.
Hughwolf personally took on the role of explaining the history of Hidden Fire Peak to Jon. His voice was solemn, as though each word carried the weight of centuries.
"The higher one climbs," he warned, "the fewer should follow. The God of Hidden Fire Peak does not like noise."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "Elder Hughwolf, before the landslide destroyed the old path, how many successfully reached the summit?"
"Five or six, perhaps," Hughwolf said after a pause. "One ascent every five or six years, if fortune allowed. Those who reached the top received the recognition of the Fire Witch."
Jon tilted his head. "Recognition? What does that mean? And how did the Fire Witch climb there herself?"
"I cannot say," Hughwolf replied, his voice practiced. "It was too long ago. Our people have no written records. We are fortunate if we can remember our grandfathers' names. Who remembers stories from two hundred years past?"
Jon studied him, weighing the words. Hughwolf's tone sounded rehearsed, too neat, as though he had repeated this tale countless times. But Jon let the matter rest.
He announced his intent to make preparations and depart the following morning.
No sooner had Hughwolf left than Old York shuffled close, his cloudy eyes gleaming with an intensity Jon rarely saw. The old man leaned in so close that Jon could feel the warmth of his breath.
"What is it, Old York?" Jon asked warily.
"Nettles!"
Jon blinked. "What?"
"Nettles! And Sheepstealer!" The old man trembled with excitement. "The first Fire Witch of these mountains was none other than Nettles herself! And she came here with her dragon, Sheepstealer!"
Jon's eyes narrowed. Old York, the ever-enthusiastic dragon fanatic, was finally showing his true value.
Old York explained in breathless tones: "More than a decade after King Aegon III took the Iron Throne, a knight of the Vale discovered a dragon in a cave. Upon its back was a woman with long white hair, her clothes in tatters. That dragon was Sheepstealer, and that woman could only have been Nettles!"
Jon's mind stirred. During the Dance of Dragons, the great civil war that split House Targaryen into the Blacks and the Greens, Rhaenyra Targaryen had desperately recruited bastards of Targaryen blood to tame the unclaimed dragons. Nettles, a bastard girl, had succeeded in riding Sheepstealer.
She had once guarded Harrenhal alongside Prince Daemon Targaryen, until—mysteriously—Daemon had ordered her away. After that, she vanished from history.
"So Nettles became the Painted Dog Tribe's first Fire Witch," Jon muttered, half to himself.
Old York nodded eagerly. "Aye! And if Sheepstealer lived in these mountains, then dragon eggs might yet remain! Do you not see? That is why Hughwolf is so eager to aid you. He hopes you will uncover the path to those eggs."
Jon rubbed his chin. Sheepstealer would be long dead—dragons rarely lived beyond two centuries. But eggs? That was a different matter. Dragon bones were relics, but dragon eggs… those could change the world.
His mind drifted back to Hughwolf's peculiar resistance to heat. Many Targaryens were not unburnt, but most were resilient against flame. Perhaps Hughwolf carried some trace of that bloodline.
"So Hughwolf spares no effort," Jon concluded, "because he believes I might find the way—and the treasure—hidden at the peak."
Old York thumped his staff against the ground. "Exactly! When we set out, we should bring more men, so we control the situation."
Jon gave a thin smile. "Leave it to me."
---
The following day, their departure stirred the Painted Dog Tribe. The visiting elders and chiefs came to see them off. Even Chick, who had been Jon's sharpest critic, now urged him to be careful.
The party numbered ten: Jon and Old York, five Winterfell soldiers, and five grizzled veterans of the mountain clans. Hughwolf volunteered to guide them, bringing a dozen retainers of his own, including his son Huff.
Yet something about Hughwolf's men struck Jon as odd. Their shapes looked bulky, their steps heavy, as if they concealed more beneath their cloaks than simple provisions.
Huff stepped forward, his tone faintly reproachful. "Lord Jon, did we not agree? The God of Hidden Fire Peak dislikes noise. Why bring so many?"
Jon's gaze flickered toward Hughwolf's numerous retainers. "And why, then, does your father bring a dozen more?"
"They carry our supplies," Huff stammered. "They will turn back halfway. The path narrows higher up."
"A clumsy excuse," Jon thought, though he kept the smile from his lips. Aloud, he said, "Then let my old veterans remain. They know reverence for the mountain gods better than most."
Hughwolf's eyes narrowed but he conceded, for Jon had brought only graybeards, not strapping youths.
Jon's confidence remained unshaken. Even if Hughwolf plotted treachery, Jon trusted he could prevail.
---
They set out along the winding trails, Hughwolf speaking idly, filling the air with chatter meant to dull Jon's caution. Jon answered with equal politeness but little substance, his thoughts always one step ahead.
Then, without warning, a figure burst from the trees ahead. Swords rang free, bows drew taut.
"Hold!" Jon called, raising his hand.
From the shadows stepped Sola, breathless but determined.
"Jon!" she cried, then glanced at Hughwolf. "Elder Hughwolf."
Jon's heart sank. "Sola? Why are you here?"
"Hidden Fire Peak is dangerous," she said stubbornly. "I will go with you."
Old York scratched his head, half-amused. This girl… so direct. A maid of Westeros would never speak so plainly. At most, she would whisper prayers for his safety. But this wild girl—she might as well shout her heart to the sky. He sighed inwardly. My granddaughter cannot compare to her.
Jon, however, felt only a headache coming on. He had no desire for entanglements, least of all here. But night was falling, and he could hardly abandon her to the wilderness. With reluctance, he permitted her to stay.
Yet the interruptions were not over. As camp was made, another figure slipped into the firelight.
It was Harken—the "King of Vinegar" himself.
When he found Sola gone from the tribe, he had needed only a moment's thought to guess where she had gone. Driven by jealousy and pride, he had followed, sword at his side.
The arrival threw Hughwolf's plans into disarray. More witnesses meant more eyes to see—and more tongues to speak later. For Jon, it was a mixed blessing. Hughwolf would be forced into greater caution, though the camp now seethed with tension.
---
The next morning, they resumed their march.
Sola clung to Jon's side like a shadow, peppering him with endless questions. He answered curtly, his patience stretched. Harken trailed behind, his eyes boring holes into Jon's back, his every look a silent challenge.
At last, after two days of steady climbing, the group reached the base of Hidden Fire Peak.
Jon looked up. The mountain loomed like a titan, its summit shrouded in mist. Vegetation clung stubbornly to its lower slopes, but higher up, the cliffs were barren, jagged, and cruel. Above the treeline, it was nothing but naked rock—sheer, vertical, unyielding.
"This is Hidden Fire Peak," Huff declared. He stepped forward with pride, as though presenting a throne to a king. "Let me guide you from here."
Jon narrowed his eyes at the vast stone wall before him. A challenge from gods or demons, it mattered little. Hidden Fire Peak waited, and he would climb.
---
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