Chapter 10

Fine rain drizzled, distant mountains shrouded in thin mist; this is my territory.

Qiongen escaped from the wildlings' band, bearing arrow wounds through his thigh and arm, riding an unsaddled horse that galloped as it pleased; he did not know how long he had been on the horse, but fortunately the horse's neck had reins, allowing him to grip firmly in his half‑awake, half‑asleep state. The thigh and arm on one side were completely powerless; he tested his forehead with the back of the usable hand. It was slightly feverish.

I must get the message to Black Castle as quickly as possible.

But he was too exhausted; his weakness left him unsure whether he could reach Black Castle before the wildlings, and what would it matter anyway? The garrison at Black Castle was far too few—old, weak, sick, and disabled—vastly outnumbered by these wildling warriors who had scaled the Wall.

Perhaps the wildlings were still hot on his heels. He did not know where he was, but there was no doubt this was south of the Wall, the North, his father's land. He had fled from Rear Crown Town—this was certain—the high tower in the lake had once hosted the Targaryen dynasty's queen, Alysanne Targaryen, who came to the North with her husband Jaehaerys Targaryen on dragonback. Her dragon was named Silverwing, her husband's dragon was called the Bronze Fury, named Vermithor. He knew those dragon names well. He wished he too had a dragon, so he could ride it to deliver the message to Black Castle, or ride it to defeat the wildlings beyond the Wall.

He gave a bitter laugh to shake off the thought. Dragons had vanished centuries ago.

The horse stopped on a hillside; it too was tired. Qiongen struggled to slide off the horse's back, his arm and thigh both flaring with sharp pain, he hardly knew which part to cry out about.

The arrow in his arm had pierced the leather armor and undershadow, not deep into the flesh, but he felt the bone below the wound shatter with waves of pain. He pulled the arrow out with all his strength; the pain nearly made him faint. He looked at the arrowhead, dazed—it was an arrow from Ygritte.

Surrounding mountains stretched continuously, utterly unlike the meadows and hills of Rear Crown Town. Had he already entered the mountain clans' territory? He had no time to ponder. He needed a shelter to tend his wound a little, to regain courage and some strength to continue toward Black Castle. But the nearby bushes were tangled, and farther off stood towering oaks, ironwoods, and redwoods, their treetops still bearing patches of white snow.

If he lingered or spent the night, he would surely die. He had no choice but to examine the arrow wound in his leg where he lay.

He used a dagger to cut open the trouser fabric near the wound, compared it to the exposed arrow, and the depth of penetration filled him with dread.

He tried gripping the arrow shaft with both hands and pulling it out, but even a slight attempt made him cry out in agony as blood flooded the wound. He tore his undershirt into a strip and tied it above the wound to staunch the bleeding, hoping it would not cause him to faint immediately.

He fainted.

He was awakened by a blast of icy rain. The sky remained overcast; he thought it was already night, but opening his eyes to the sky told him darkness was still hours away. He was glad he hadn't been unconscious too long, yet he felt a sense of loss at not having quietly left this world.

Since he was not dead, his watch must continue. He hoped the horse was still nearby; without it, he could never make it back to Black Castle. He drew his long sword, its blade covered in a smoky gray mystic pattern. Since you were not buried in the mire, you must have some other purpose; the gods would never assign you such an ending, he thought.

He rose to his feet, feeling a bit dizzy, but he knew he could still walk. He looked around, hoping the horse was somewhere peacefully grazing, its belly full. But there was no sign of the horse anywhere, and he felt despair.

Idiot, think of a plan, think of a plan—if Black Castle falls, the whole North will rot. And if Winterfell were to fall—no, Winterfell will never fall; it has repelled foes stronger than the wildling army.

He scrutinized the surroundings, hoping for some obvious feature to tell him where he was. He had traveled with Eddard Stark, Robb, and Theon, almost covering the whole North, seeing the vistas of the newly granted lands far away—but that had been in summer… He hoped in his heart to see a familiar sight, but everything before him was utterly strange; he had no choice but to go on foot, hoping that crossing the ridge would reveal the Wall.

He picked up the bow and arrows, casually tossed them into the thicket, and covered the blood on the ground with clods of earth, hoping the wildlings would not notice.

His whole body began to ache; each step was a trouble. He thought he would collapse after a hundred steps, but after a hundred steps he kept going, thinking he could manage at most another two hundred, yet after two hundred steps he still pressed on. Before the sun slipped behind the cliff, he had lost count of how many steps he had taken, and also of how many branches his Valyrian steel sword had cut down.

Cooking smoke.

He saw not far off in the woods a lively puff of smoke—was that cooking smoke?

It might be a hunter's fire, or it could be wildlings, or perhaps his black brothers. If it were wildlings, I would slay a few with my Valyrian steel sword; my watch would end here.

He walked toward the direction of the smoke, but after descending a hill he lost his sense of direction, so he scrambled back up, fixed his bearing, and continued onward on the correct course; each time he drifted from the original bearing he re‑estimated the smoke's true position, yet after several twists in the thicket he lost all trace.

He decided to give up, no longer watching the smoke's bearing, and simply followed the trail and the rough direction forward. He hoped his chosen way was correct, but losing the target tormented him, worse than enduring pain while climbing.

The North is vast; one region alone nearly equals the remaining area of the kingdom. He recalled his father Eddard Stark's words, yet its population falls short of that of the other three realms.

Let me just meet a Northman, Father.

In the dense forest his head hurt worse, as if someone were pulling on a braid he didn't have, leaving half his skull numb and heavy.

Emerging from the forest, a fine drizzle began, wetting his face; the cold sensation cleared his mind somewhat.

He followed the mountain's contour, circling the woods with difficulty, and then, fortuitously, the cooking smoke reappeared before his eyes.

Thanks to the gods! He almost wanted to burst into tears.

Now the smoke was separated from him only by the woods and a narrow gully, with no hill blocking the way; he should be able to reach it soon.

Fate let me see the smoke again; it will not let me die right before it.

He went on for a long while before finally recognizing that the smoke was right ahead. At this point the surroundings had fallen into darkness, and he felt he might faint at any moment and collapse into the black.

Finally, as he drew near, the woods were pitch black. He tried moving his leg, stretching his arm. If they were wildlings, perhaps he could still kill one, maybe two; more than that and he would collapse himself.

He tried to keep approaching, hoping it was a hunter or a mountain clansman; even if he died here, they could relay the message to Black Castle. This sword could serve as proof of identity, and the dagger could be a gift for them.

The hound spotted them before he did, barking furiously. No wildling who crosses the Wall brings a dog—this is good news.

He heard two twangs, and the arrows landed precisely two feet in front of him. In the firelight he saw a person raising a bow, and several shadows darting out from the doorway. If he kept moving, the next arrow would strike his chest. He did not want that.

"Friend. This is a lost watchman." Most of the mountain clans in the North are friends of the watch. Seeing the foe lower his bow, he pulled the two arrows stuck in the ground; the heads were flat spear‑shaped, sharp as a blade, with two blood grooves, polished bright—genuine iron arrowheads, nothing the wildlings could equip.

He struggled to raise his hands and hobbled forward. In the firelight appeared an old man whose face was covered in a thick white beard, wrapped in a heavy fur coat, deep wrinkles, a big red nose, coarse white nose hairs sprouting from the nostrils, his eyes almost completely hidden by folds of lids, but the tiny gleam that showed was bright and pure as water—typical of a mountain person.

"I am Jon Snow of Winterfell, a watchman of the Black Castle, steward to Lord Commander Mormont." The watchman's identity might suffice, but the deep forest clans and the mountain clans are also friends and allies of Winterfell.

"Lower your bow. Huo De, mind the dog." The old man's voice was loud, with a hint of the mountain folk's savagery.

Huo De was a boy of only eight or nine, about the same age as Bran, but life in the wild made him look much rougher and stronger; he wore a pelt, resembling a nimble hunter, yet when comforting the dog he seemed like a child. From the window he also saw two other children, a boy and a girl, and a woman in hunting attire—actually just wrapped in coarse fur, like all the mountain folk he had met; she was noticeably younger than the old man.

"I know a Jon Snow of Winterfell. To confirm your identity, you had best tell me the names of your father, mother, brothers, and sisters." The old man remained wary, looking extremely stern, ready to explode; evidently, if he could not answer this question, nothing good would come of it.

The question posed no difficulty for him. "My father is Eddard Stark, my brothers are Robb, Bran, and Rickon," he wondered whether to utter Theon's name, but in this situation it was best to omit it, "my sisters are Mei Yi, Sansa, and Arya," he did not know his mother's name, but he knew the old man expected to hear it, "the lady of Winterfell is Catelyn Tully, but I am a bastard, not her child. I do not know who my mother is."

"Well, child, although any Northman could answer that, I doubt a wildling could." The old man gestured for him to go inside, "Your cloak—surely you are not a watchman."

"Thank you. The cloak is a long story, and I don't yet know how to address you." The interior was extremely warm; he even let out a groan, seeing the mud‑sealed hearth, with a small fire burning below, the smoke‑vent stretching to the roof. This was not a hastily erected dwelling.

"I have seen your uncle. He calls me 'Zahuzi,' you can call me that too; back then my beard wasn't all white. You ought to know what his name is!"

"Banyang Stark."

"No, that's not it." The old man cracked a grin.

"Not that?" He couldn't help but look again at the old man. "How long ago was that, then?"

"Hahaha. Now I believe you are a bastard of Winterfell." His smile was like fire, and he relaxed from the heart, "These are my three grandsons and granddaughter, and this is my daughter. The father of the child, Rickard, answered the summons to go south, hoping to save Lord Eddard. Well, Huo Min has lately dreamed of something very terrible, and she believes her father is dead." Huo Min is a little younger than Huo De, but not much; her eyes are large, and in the light they reveal a mischievous look, somewhat like Arya.

But she is not.

"You spoke of another uncle—you must have been to Winterfell, then!" Perhaps he also knows something about his mother's situation.

"Your face is ashen, you're steaming all over—sit down first." Said the daughter of Zahuzi, her brown hair tightly wrapped around her head; although much younger than Zahuzi, in the firelight a close look showed she was not exactly in the bloom of youth, her appearance efficient, agile, and strong. She handed him a hot piece of bread, and another boy ladled a bowl of soup from a crock and offered it to him.

He gave his heartfelt thanks.

Qiongen sat down, but the pain from the wound made him cry out involuntarily; he could feel blood flowing again from the wound, and in fact he could not staunch it completely.

"Have you run into enemies?" the old man asked.

"Wildlings. A band of wildlings have scaled the Wall, already reached Rear Crown Town, and are preparing to assault Black Castle from the south." This is his most important mission: "Lord Commander Mormont has taken most of the black brothers north, leaving Black Castle very empty. If Black Castle falls, Mance Rayder will surely lead the wildling host through the Wall…" Perhaps they have already crossed the Wall, but he hopes his lie will make the wildlings wary, preventing rash action.

"That is indeed big news." The old man let out a long sigh, "Drink a little, and dry your cloak by the fire. If this wound isn't treated, it will kill you."

He wanted to ask for help and send out a message, but they were not scholars and had no carrier pigeons.

He took a sip of hot soup, instantly decided it was the best soup he had ever drunk in his life, then gulped down the rest in big mouthfuls; the heat inside and out made him feel he could still persevere to deliver the letter to Black Castle. He then bit into the already burnt‑black bread; the crisp, charred sensation opened his appetite, the interior slightly sour but still exuding a rich wheat aroma, truly delicious.

Soon after he heard the rain outside, which grew heavier. Without such shelter he would surely die out in the mountain wilderness, he thought.

The old man loosened the bandage he had tied, examined the leg wound in the firelight; blood had soaked through his makeshift bandage, and the remainder had clotted into a large patch on his leg.

"Perhaps I don't have the scholar's skill of Winterfell, but treating these wounds I should be no worse than him. What's his name?"

"Heh, names again." Qiongen smiled.

"Luwen, Luwen the scholar."

"Oh, I recall that one was also called, oh, Veris." The old man used a hot‑water‑soaked towel to wipe the blood around the wound, very practiced, while his daughter also assisted, from time to time washing and handing it back to him.

"Have you seen them?" Qiongen really wanted another bowl of soup.

"This also makes a long story. When I was young, I followed my father and elder brothers to the Winterfell market to sell animal pelts; they said they were selling pelts, but actually I was asking my father to let him specially bring me to see Winterfell. I had long heard from the tribespeople that it was the largest castle in the North, with the highest tower in the whole North inside. That time we only went around the winter market, regrettably unable to enter Winterfell; the high walls kept us outside, but the tower was indeed tall, we could see it from afar outside the city. Although we couldn't go in, I was still very happy; at that moment I thought, if Winterfell is already so majestic, then a thousand times larger King's Landing must be what a sight? From then on I began to dream that one day I could go south to see the most magnificent city on the continent. Later, the opportunity came: to win over the mountain clans, Winterfell summoned warriors from our side, so I went south with the wolf. At that time I had already grown into an adult, so my father did not object; he exchanged two bundles of fur for an iron sword each for me and my brother — that was the first sword I ever owned in my life. Hmm, you won't think we were going south to fight, will you? Not at all; back then the Four Seas were peaceful, the South had no need for northerners to join any war, and Lord Rickard did not plan to start a rebellion." He finally finished, gesturing for his daughter to bring the skin bag; the children nearby gathered to watch. This was their teaching site for treating wounds, Qiongen thought.

"You still haven't said how you know them..." Qiongen felt a bit sleepy.

"Is that so, I already said." He pulled the stopper from the skin bag and poured it onto the wound. Intense pain shot through; Qiongen could only clench his fist. He saw blood gush from the wound again.

"That mistaken spring, you've heard of many things; as a mountain clansman guarding, I went south with Lord Rickard and his several children—of course your father wasn't here, he set out from the Eyrie. I fulfilled my wish and saw Harrenhal; its tower is larger, its walls thicker and taller."

"And then?" Qiongen strained to endure the pain, unwilling to let them see his suffering.

"After that? After that I returned to the North, my brother went south with your uncle to King's Landing, and later your grandfather as well—none of them came back alive." He pressed his hand on the wound, made sure there were no other issues, then began applying the prepared herbs.

"We waited and waited in Winterfell for news of your father, but we never got it; everyone could hardly bear it, rumors said your father had perished at sea, others said he was with some woman and had forgotten his identity, the lords were restless, preparing to rally behind your uncle Bran when he returned." He sprinkled medicinal powder on the wound, which hurt more than washing with wine.

"You don't think that only Lord Rickard and his heir died in King's Landing that year, do you?"

"Of course not, your brother too."

"Those who went south with Lord Rickard included people from all the great and small families of the North, from us mountain clans in the far reaches to the marsh dwellers of the Neck down south—all of them, their blood flowed across the whole North." The old man grew stern and angry: "Just like this time. They won't come back, just as Hosni dreamed."

"None of them came back? The last news he heard was that Robb had won a great victory in the South; hearing it, he felt a spell of envy, wishing he could fly back to his side to fight together."

"Just a dream?" How could you take a child's dream seriously?

"Child, this is where you differ from northerners. We are descendants of the first men who worship the old gods and the heart tree. Power lies in our blood; this is no ordinary dream, it is a prophecy. Moreover, some people can skinchange, entering the bodies of animals."

"Skinchange?" He recalled having once entered the white spirit's body in a dream, observing the world through its eyes and nose.

"I can sense that you are a skinchanger, possessing this power." The old man chuckled.

"I, I can't." Qiongen had never entered voluntarily, and now he felt utterly devoid of the white spirit's presence: "I only do it occasionally in dreams, and my wolf is beyond the Wall; after we parted, I never dreamed of it again." He didn't care about these things: "You just said they won't come back—what about Robb and them?"

"Robb and the northern army have been annihilated; most northern nobles are either dead or captured. Child, I don't want to say this is true." Qiongen understood what he meant.

"If Robb doesn't return, who will face the wildlings' great army? Winterfell..." Winterfell would face more complicated problems; the Wall is absolutely not their primary concern.

"After you've eaten your fill, I'll treat your arm wound. Then rest well; you don't need to stand watch tonight."

He didn't know how he closed his eyes; he hoped to dream of Robb, hoping it would be utterly different from that girl's dream, in which Robb had already defeated the southern enemies, brought back his sisters, and at this moment had returned to the North and to Winterfell. But there was no Robb in the dream. In the dream he saw Sam sitting on the ground weeping; he shouted at Sam to be brave, but Sam just kept crying. He wanted to find Pip, to find Mormont, to find the other brothers, but nothing was there; he pushed open the half‑ajar black door, only to see the Lord Commander lying in a heap of rotten wood, blood flooding the floor, his ravens perched on his face constantly pecking his eyes, pulling out strands of flesh from his empty sockets. He angrily drove the ravens away; the ravens all flew off, scattering, some still crying "Snow". Then he realized he was in a dark cave; Ygritte had stripped naked, standing in the deep pool, blood flowing from her chest continuously, flowing over every place he had once touched; she began to cling to him, weeping, "We shouldn't have left this cave." He was heart‑broken, wanting to comfort her, but his words stumbled; when he replied "I have no choice but to leave," Ygritte turned savage, "Jon Snow, you traitor, you betrayed me, you shot me with arrows, you killed me" she showed him the wound in her chest—a huge hollow. "Not me, not me, you shot me with two arrows, I never harmed you..." He tried to argue, but Ygritte gave him no chance, turned into a wight and lunged to tear him apart; he had no choice but to flee the cave, naked, walking in the snow. Snowflakes swirled, he was freezing, yet he had to keep walking, not knowing how long had passed; when he felt helpless, a beautiful woman wrapped in ice‑white hair came toward him, her body like a ball of fire enveloping him, "Be braver," she said. He wanted to ask, "Who are you?", but the woman had already vanished, and he found himself clothed in warm garments, as if strolling through a summer flower meadow. He continued forward, but ahead grew darker and the wind‑snow intensified; he only felt heat, and just as he grew impatient, he saw a pair of ice‑blue eyes on a humanoid monster riding a pale death‑horse toward him. He woke up.

He angrily drove off the crows, the crows all flew away scattering, some still shouting "Snow Nuo". Then he discovered that people were already in the dark cave, Yegoruite had stripped naked, standing in the deep pool, blood flowing from her chest continuously, flowing over all the places he had once touched, she began to embrace him and cry to him, "We shouldn't have left this cave". He was extremely sad, wanted to comfort her, but he was mute, when he replied "I cannot but leave", Yegoruite began to become ferocious, "Qiongenxuenuo, you traitor, you betrayed me, it was you who shot me with arrows, it was you who shot me dead". She showed him the wound on her chest, a huge hollow. "It wasn't me, it wasn't me, you shot me with two arrows, I haven't harmed you..." He wanted to explain, but Yegoruite gave him no chance, turned into a corpse demon and lunged to bite him, he had no choice but to flee the cave, naked, walking in the snow. Snowflakes swirled, he was freezing cold, but he had to keep walking forward, not knowing how long had passed, when he felt helpless, a beautiful woman clad in ice-and-snow-colored hair came toward him, her body like a mass of fire, enveloping him, "Be braver", she said. He wanted to ask, "Who are you?", but the woman had already disappeared, and he had already put on warm clothes, as if strolling in a summer flower sea. He continued forward, but ahead grew darker and the wind and snow grew stronger, he only felt hot, when he became impatient, he saw a humanoid monster with ice-blue eyes riding a pale dead horse coming toward him. He woke up startled.

"You've slept a long time, huh." The old man said to him, "I was just about to put an egg on you to roast it. Since you're awake, you won't die." He noticed that only the old man and he were left in the room, "After you eat something, I'll change your medicine again."

Qiongenxuenuo looked out through the crack in the window; the sky had already brightened.

No matter what, he had to set out, to get the letter to the Wall before the wildlings.

"Old man with the scruffy beard, which of the mountain clans are you—Fell, Wool, Norrey, Bolton, Karstark, Reed, or Norther?" The old man had no obvious features, and Qiongen didn't care to learn these northern details; if Robb were here, he wouldn't need to ask.

"I thought you already knew." The old man gave a mocking smile, his eyes narrowing, "Which clan do you think is qualified to go south with Lord Rickard Stark to King's Landing?"

"All clans are qualified," Qiongen thought, but the old man clearly regarded following the lord of Winterfell as a unique honor, so he could only think from another angle. His head felt heavy, he hesitated a long time before saying, "I guess it's the Fell. The Fell are among the mountain clans that have marriage ties with the Stark family of Winterfell." He watched the old man's expression; if the slightest displeasure appeared, he would stop and name the next clan, but the old man showed no displeasure, rather some appreciation, so he continued, "My father once said that among the mountain clans the Fell were the original Fell, the closest friends of Winterfell, their aid to Winterfell made their roots spread throughout the North..."

"The Fell have long wanted to marry a daughter into Winterfell, but in recent decades the Starks have been taking brides from the South and sending daughters south, and the old folk of the woods have largely been forgotten." Then he laughed, "But you're wrong—I'm not Fell, I'm Norrey." He gave a hehe laugh, "But our ties to Winterfell are just as close as the Fell's."

"Filinte has always wanted to marry off a daughter to Winter City, but in recent decades the Starks have been picking girls from the south and sending daughters south, the old people of the forests have almost all been forgotten." Then he laughed, "But you're wrong, I'm not Filinte, I'm of House Norrey." He hehe laughed, "But our relationship with Winter City is close, not inferior to Filinte's."

Old man Norrey. Please take me to see Lord Norrey.

Old man Norrey. Please take me to see Lord Norrey.