The sun had not yet broken the blue. It was a clear enough sky for it, not that wildlings would struggle in storms and sleet. For people awoken before dawn and about to be sent to the edge of the world to fight ice monsters, they were surprisingly chatty. There were hundreds of them, Jon Snow knew, but they may yet not be enough.
“Make sure they get to Castle Black safely,” he told Tormund Giantsbane. “Try not to get yourself killed too,” he added, smiling.
“We’ll make it well enough, Jon Snow,” Tormund said lazily, the mist escaping his mouth whiter than Ghost. “It is not the ride to the Wall that worries me.”
“I did not think anything worried you.”
“That’s where you would be wrong, see? I’d rather have me pecker cut out than go back to Hardhome. But Tormund Giantsbane is no coward, and neither are me mates. We all owe the Night King a thing or two… and it helps that a wall of ice stands in the way. You have fought for us, Jon Snow. Now we are even.”
The sun rose, setting alight Tormund Giantsbane’s hair, redder than fire. It was time for them to part. “We are twenty-thousand strong at Winterfell,” Jon reminded him. “The moment there is trouble, send ravens to us at once.”
“Ravens?” Tormund roared with laughter in the dark. “I think the rings of sword and steel will be heard well enough across the north, har!”
The last Jon Snow saw of Tormund before he went back to Winterfell was him leading the wildlings into the skyline. All he could see was his red hair glistening in the sun. For a second, Jon was reminded of Ygritte. He pushed her out of his head. She is dead, he reminded himself. And we may follow.
*
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