The army of two thousand marched like a great serpent winding its way home, their war songs echoing across the fields.
When two thousand men sang and marched in unison, even if their equipment looked poor, their sheer momentum demanded attention.
Two thousand tribal warriors, led by Jon Snow, advanced toward his camp.
"Oh my, are those truly wildlings?"
"Look at what they're wearing! Who else could they be?"
"I'm not speaking of their equipment, but their bearing—their aura. Do you understand?"
"Their momentum is impressive, yes. But I wonder about their fighting strength."
Soldiers and nobles all around pointed and whispered as Jon's new host passed.
At that moment, Lord Severn and Halion also arrived at the edge of the camp.
"Jon really raised an army from those wildlings?" Severn muttered, almost disbelieving. Before Jon had left, he had thought the boy's expedition a waste of time. Yet now, before his eyes, Jon had once again exceeded expectations.
"It seems Jon is not only skilled at war, but also gifted at persuasion," Halion said with open admiration.
The army's discipline and unity already surpassed the ragged wildling bands the Lannisters had recruited. Somehow, Jon had forged them into something greater—and in so short a time.
Such an army was not just capable of marching. It was capable of fighting.
The two lords exchanged a look. Both were eager to meet Jon themselves, and perhaps to learn how he had done it.
Already, many in the Northern host had begun imitating Jon's training methods. But the results were disappointing. They would need his direct advice.
Elsewhere in camp, young Lyman Darry heard Jon had returned and immediately demanded to see him.
Martyn and Mond Rivers tried to dissuade him, but the boy refused. As the last heir of House Darry—and its current lord—they could not gainsay him.
The three of them came to Jon's camp.
"Wow! Is this the wildling army? I think they're splendid!" Lyman exclaimed, eyes wide with excitement.
Martyn and Mond kept their silence, but inwardly they agreed. Though reluctant to admit it aloud—especially since Jon had once opposed Robb's crowning—the truth was clear. Jon had a rare talent for raising men. His training, his order, even his use of war songs… all spoke of a mind full of ideas.
Jon's camp, once spacious, now felt crowded with the sudden arrival of two thousand more. But thanks to advance preparations, there was room enough, and arrangements for food and shelter were already underway.
By the time everything was settled, the sky had darkened.
Sola appeared, carrying a basin of clear water. She set it before Jon, but he waved her off.
"I've already washed my face."
"No, Jon," she said gently. "We've traveled so far. You should wash your feet."
"There's no need. We are in the army now. I must be the same as everyone else."
His answer caught her off guard. Her father, Vido, had told her to look after Jon with all her heart—after all, he was destined to be their liege lord. Yet Jon insisted on sharing the same hardships as his men.
"Where is Harken?" Jon asked suddenly. "I have something to announce later."
At once, Sola's lips curved downward. "Harken went to find those women."
"Those… ah." Jon remembered.
There were camp followers in the army. Not kidnapped Riverland women, of course—Jon's discipline forbade that. These were women who came of their own accord, seeking coin. Some were desperate enough to trade their bodies for food.
Jon had wanted to ban the practice outright, but such traditions ran deep. Better to focus his hard-won authority elsewhere. For now, he merely imposed order, ensuring no abuses occurred. Perhaps, in time, he could create a new type of army without such baggage.
For now, he turned a blind eye.
Camp followers weren't limited to women, either. Traveling merchants and even small circuses sometimes came to try their luck. Jugglers, clowns, and dwarves could bring a little laughter to the soldiers—though their movements in camp were tightly restricted.
Jon chatted briefly with Sola, planning to introduce her to their Fire Witch later. Just then, two familiar figures entered—Lord Severn and Halion.
"Jon!" Halion boomed, laughing. "I never thought you'd bring back such a host! The entire Northern army is buzzing about you!"
Hearing the words, Sola's face darkened. She could not stand hearing her tribesmen dismissed as "wildlings." Though she had no wish to marry within the Painted Dog Tribe, they were still her people.
Jon noticed and quickly intervened.
"Sorl, bring some tea," he said.
To hide her identity, Sola was using her brother's name. She bowed quickly and left, shooting Halion a sharp glare as she passed.
"Sorl?" Severn asked, brow raised. "Did you bring him from the tribes as well?"
"Yes," Jon said simply.
"He looks spirited enough," Severn remarked. "Though his hips are a bit wide. If he were a woman, he'd surely bear many sons."
Jon cut him off sharply, steering the conversation away. "What news of the Lannisters?"
Severn and Halion exchanged a glance, then grinned.
"That old wolf Tywin knows he's finished," Halion said. "We've already retaken most of the Riverlands."
"Yes," Severn agreed. "His best hope now is to flee back to the Westerlands—but Robb and the Riverlords wait for him there."
They spoke with a tone of easy confidence. Too easy, Jon thought. Overconfidence was spreading through the Northern host like a sickness.
Severn and Halion soon revealed their true purpose: they wished Jon to share the secrets of his training methods.
Jon did not refuse. "When I have the time, I'll write down my insights and share them."
Both lords were stunned by his generosity. Training secrets were worth their weight in gold to a commander. Yet Jon offered them freely.
They left more determined than ever to befriend him.
Only Jon knew the truth: his methods had limits in this world. The Northern host was still an army cobbled together, raw and uneven. True strength required long honing.
Still, if sharing his training won him allies, it was worth it.
Their laughter was still in the air when a messenger arrived.
"Lord Snow, Lord Bolton summons you to discuss military matters."
Halion scowled. "Jon, be careful. That old man never seeks you out for anything good."
Severn's face soured too. He was older than Bolton, yet even he had grown used to Roose's sly, serpentine manner.
Jon only smiled faintly.
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