Autumn had claimed Westeros. The crisp winds that scoured the North swept now across the Mountains of the Moon, stripping the leaves from branches and leaving the slopes stark and desolate. Every gust rattled the dry limbs, and the sound echoed like whispers of warning.
The party climbed higher, step by step. The path had narrowed to a treacherous ridge, forcing them to use both hands and feet. Loose stones shifted beneath their boots, tumbling into the abyss below. One slip would mean death.
"Jon, put these on," said Hughwolf. He handed out several pairs of wooden climbing shoes. They looked like crude high-heeled sandals, but instead of heels, sharp wooden strips jutted from the soles. On flat ground, the shoes pitched the wearer forward, awkward and unstable. But on sheer slopes, the design helped anchor their steps.
Jon turned to Sola. "Did you bring a pair?"
"I did," she said quickly, patting the wicker basket strapped to her back. Her cheeks glowed with joy at his concern.
Jon nodded, then glanced toward Harken. The young warrior clearly had left in haste; he carried no climbing shoes.
"Harken, wear mine."
The boy stiffened. "What? No need." His pride flared. That his rival, the man who stole Sola's heart, would offer such help was unbearable.
Jon ignored his refusal. "Miss Sola, give them to him on my behalf."
"But Jon," she protested softly, "what about you?"
Jon only smiled. He pulled a tough vine from a nearby trunk, wrapped it around his boots, and knotted it to his heels. "This will do."
Reluctantly, Harken accepted the shoes from Sola's hands. His pride and jealousy warred with the silent plea in her eyes. In the end, he slipped them on, feeling both humiliated and strangely indebted.
Hughwolf watched this exchange, lips pressed tight. To him, it was wasted time. "My lord, we must hurry," he urged. "If night falls, the path will turn slick."
Jon inclined his head. "Then let us move on."
---
The climb resumed. Hughwolf's men took the lead, while those burdened with supplies lagged behind, effectively boxing Jon's party in the middle. From above, the procession looked like a line of ants crawling up the bark of a tree.
But Jon saw more than others. Through God's Perspective, he noted the details—the unnatural bulk of Hughwolf's men, the glint of leather armor beneath their cloaks. Why wear armor for climbing? Not for protection from falls. It was meant for battle. A trap waiting to be sprung.
By afternoon they reached a ledge broad enough to rest. Though their muscles still carried strength, prudence demanded camp. Pushing forward into darkness would be suicide.
Hughwolf seized the chance to approach Jon, speaking in his oily, reasonable tone. "We have brought ropes for you. If you can climb that sheer face and secure them to the pine at the top, we will raise a rope ladder. With your skill, the rest of us can follow."
Jon's lips curved faintly. "Elder Hughwolf is well prepared. You must have long wished to glimpse the Fire Witches' dwelling."
Caught off guard, Hughwolf hesitated. For a heartbeat his eyes flickered, but then he chuckled. "I am over forty years old. How many years remain? If I can stand upon Hidden Fire Peak before I die, I will leave this world content."
Jon said nothing. But inwardly, the pieces fit tighter. Hughwolf's hunger was not for gods' approval—it was for the secrets Nettles and her dragon had left behind.
Sola soon appeared with shy steps, a folded blanket in her arms. "Jon," she whispered, "I brought this for you. The nights grow cold at this height…"
Her voice faltered, her boldness faltering into bashfulness.
Jon offered her a polite smile. "Thank you. But keep it for yourself. I am of the North; the cold is my companion." His refusal was gentle but firm.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Harken bristle, his stare hot as coals. To accept the blanket would be to drive the boy's jealousy past breaking. Jon needed no more enemies among the Painted Dog.
Sola bit her lip. "Then… perhaps we could sleep close. To share warmth…"
Jon forced a laugh. "Better that Old York and I share a bedroll. The old man snores like thunder, but at least he doesn't blush."
Old York nearly choked on his dried meat. "Seven hells, boy," he muttered, but the joke broke the tension. Sola pouted, Harken smoldered, and the camp finally settled.
Sleep was uneasy. No one trusted the slope beneath them; every shift of weight threatened to send them tumbling into the abyss. Watch was kept through the night, eyes straining against the starlit void.
---
Dawn brought damp chill, but also renewed determination. They pressed onward until midday, when the path ended abruptly.
Before them loomed the cliff face of Hidden Fire Peak itself—gray-white stone, sheer as polished steel. Narrow cracks veined the wall, choked with dust and weeds. Only a single pine jutted high above, its roots clutching the stone. That solitary tree was the only possible anchor point.
Old York stared upward, aghast. "My lord… this is worse than the Wall. One slip and you'll fall to your death. Better we turn back now. Beating the Lannisters is easier than this."
Sola, pale and trembling, seized Jon's sleeve. "Yes! Let's go back. I'll follow you to fight the Lannisters. Please don't climb this monster."
Jon allowed his expression to falter, to show doubt. Inside, his mind calculated every reaction. If I refuse, will Hughwolf show his true face?
Huff, Hughwolf's son, shouted encouragement. "Jon, you can do it! With your skill, nothing is impossible!"
Jon turned his gaze upon Hughwolf. The elder's eyes gleamed too brightly, his smile too eager. The mask was slipping.
"If you're afraid, then admit it," Harken said coldly. Yet even he, the jealous rival, looked at Jon with grudging respect. Perhaps because Jon had spared him humiliation with the climbing shoes, or because he had rejected Sola's offer of closeness. Whatever the reason, Harken's tone carried no true malice.
At last Jon spoke, his voice steady. "Elder Hughwolf, I thank you for your aid. But I will not climb this cliff. I will win allies with food and weapons. If some warriors refuse, so be it. I do not need the approval of gods carved into stone."
The words were a test.
And they worked.
Hughwolf's pleasant mask shattered. His voice dropped to a snarl. "Outsider, you will climb today—whether you wish to or not."
Bronze daggers hissed free. A dozen men encircled Jon and his companions, their armor clinking, their eyes hungry.
Old York swore under his breath. Sola gasped. Harken reached instinctively for his weapon.
Jon straightened, calm as ever. The trap had sprung.
And Hughwolf, no longer hiding, bared his fangs at last.
---
Øóffer going on for diamond tier
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