The battle had left its scars.
Two of Jon's veterans lay dead on the rocks, their blood soaking into the cold stone. Another clung to life by a thread, his breaths shallow, his eyes clouded. He had stood alone against three of Hughwolf's retainers until Jon cut them down, and though his spirit had been iron, his body was failing.
The rest of the veterans bore wounds of their own—gashed arms, broken ribs, bloodied brows—but still they stood, swords in hand, defiant against death.
Jon could not help but wonder if he should have brought more of Winterfell's younger, uninjured soldiers. But in these mountains, every step was perilous. A single misstep by a green recruit might have sent half the party tumbling into the abyss. In truth, there had been no perfect choice.
Harken, pale and weak from blood loss, lay at Sola's side. None of his wounds were fatal, but the sight of crimson soaking his tunic made him look like a boy who had given too much for a cause he barely understood. Only his youth and stubborn strength would see him through.
Jon stripped the captured retainers of their weapons while keeping his ears open. Sola's voice, soft and trembling, carried over the mountain wind.
"Harken… do you know my mother?"
The boy blinked, confused by the question, but nodded.
"She was not of the Painted Dog. My father took her—stole her—from the lowlands when he was young. She was the daughter of a knight." Her fingers brushed the simple ring on her hand, her eyes clouding with grief. "Before she died, she told me there was not one day she did not hate him for it. Not one."
Her voice cracked.
"Harken, do you see? To think of marrying you, of birthing a son who would one day go down the mountain to raid some poor girl as my father once did… I could never bear it."
Tears shone in her eyes.
The words struck Harken harder than any blade. He had gone raiding himself, stealing food, coin, and flesh from the weak below the mountains. It had been their way of life. He had never once questioned it. Until now.
Jon saw the truth in her pain. Even Hughwolf's surviving warriors, hardened by tradition, only muttered dismissively—"overly sentimental." To them, taking women and slaves was no sin; it was custom.
But Harken's face twisted with shame. For the first time, he understood why the girl he loved had never returned his gaze.
---
After a long half hour, Sola bound his wounds as best she could. Nearby, the mortally wounded veteran began to mumble, his cracked lips whispering, "Twenty catties… twenty catties of grain…"
Jon knelt at his side, grasping the man's calloused hand. "Rest, old soldier. I swear this—your family shall have three hundred catties of grain, and one hundred of meat. You have my word."
The man's fading eyes cleared for a moment, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. With a final sigh, he was gone.
The autumn wind keened through the peaks, carrying with it the spirit of a man who had labored all his life and still died with worry on his lips.
Jon closed the man's eyes and straightened his body with care. "He will be buried in a place of honor," he murmured.
The other two wounded veterans, hearing Jon's vow, exchanged eager glances. They looked almost ready to cast themselves into battle again, to die quickly and earn such a reward for their families.
Jon saw it in their eyes and raised his voice, firm. "Listen well. The grain is for those who die in battle. But for each enemy you slay, I'll add another hundred catties to the tally."
The men's eyes lit with a different kind of fire—not the desire for death, but the hunger to fight on, to live long enough to send food home again and again.
Jon turned away, his heart heavy. Kings would die like dogs in the years to come, he thought grimly. How much more fragile were these nameless men?
---
Hughwolf knelt nearby, his severed wrist bound in rags already soaked with red. His face was gray as ash, lips trembling from shock and pain.
Jon's sword slid from its sheath with a hiss, its tip resting cold against the man's throat. "What lies on Hidden Fire Peak that you wanted me to climb so desperately?"
Hughwolf's eyes darted, searching for escape. "I told you—it matters not if you climb. It is useless to you."
The steel pressed harder against his skin. Jon's voice was flat, unyielding. "If you want to live, answer."
The elder broke. "A dragon egg!" he spat. "There is a dragon egg on the mountain. I meant to hatch it and make it mine."
The words fell like thunder.
Jon's heart pounded. Old York's eyes widened, his aged face alight with manic joy. Their suspicions were true.
The others gasped. A dragon egg? Could it be?
"What in the gods' names is a dragon egg?" Harken croaked from the ground, struggling to raise his head.
Sola explained softly, her voice patient even through her exhaustion. Jon pressed Hughwolf further. "How do you know this?"
The elder licked his lips, desperation spilling from him. "My ancestor was of the Fire Witch's line. She rode Sheepstealer, the dragon who came to these mountains. Over a hundred years ago, Sheepstealer mated with a Targaryen prince's dragon. When she left, she carried a fertilized egg in her belly."
Old York nearly burst with excitement. "Prince Daemon—the Rogue Prince!" he cried, his voice trembling. "He was her consort, her lover! I've read of this! By all the gods… Sheepstealer's line still lives here!" His hands shook, his old scholar's hunger overwhelming. "Even if dragons are dead, to see an egg…"
Jon watched Hughwolf carefully. The elder's strange resistance to heat, his obsession with the peak—it all fit. He was telling the truth.
And if it was true, then the climb was no longer just a test of leadership. It was a chance to grasp a power thought lost to history.
"Old York, prepare the ropes," Jon said quietly. "I will ascend Hidden Fire Peak myself."
The old man balked. "My lord, no! The cliff is death itself. Let us gather men later, build ladders, siege works—"
"Later?" Jon's gaze hardened. "There may be no later. The realm grows darker by the day. If I wait, chaos will sweep this land tenfold." He looked up at the sheer wall of stone, at the lone pine jutting near its crest. "No. I climb now."
---
Hughwolf, trembling, suddenly found his voice. "Lord Jon! You saw—I am not burned by fire. It is dragon's blood in me. Let me go up! If I hatch the dragon, I will rule the Seven Kingdoms. And you—yes, you, my lord—I'll make you Warden of the North! The North will be yours entire!"
Jon almost laughed aloud. The man's pitiful desperation, his grasping promises—he looked less like a kingmaker and more like a mad peddler.
"Keep your titles," Jon said coldly. "You'll need them where you're going."
Before Hughwolf could plead again, Jon's boot slammed into his chest.
"No—!"
His scream echoed down the mountainside, fading into silence as his body was swallowed by the abyss.
The others stood frozen. Jon's face betrayed nothing. He cleaned his blade and gave the order without hesitation. "Kill the rest of them. No one else must know of this egg."
One by one, Hughwolf's retainers were cut down, their bodies cast into the ravine. The mountain wind howled, carrying the scent of blood away.
When it was done, Jon turned back to the cliff face. His eyes fixed on the pine high above, the only anchor point in sight.
He already had a plan.
And then, as if in answer, the air shimmered.
The system's cold voice rang in his mind.
[New Entry Acquired: The Unburnt] (White).
Jon inhaled sharply. His fate had shifted once again.
---
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