Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dark.

Dark everywhere.

Dark, blurry shapes surround him.

It...it may be a forest. He’s not sure.

There are some vivid lights. Fires? He’s unsure.

He can hear hushed voices, but can’t see anyone. 

Words sound familiar, but their meaning is lost to him. Just outside of his reach.

The last thing he remembers is a strike of orange and blue.

Then he wakes.

Jon opens his eyes and startles at the cold. He fell asleep on watch on top of the Wall. The last pieces of the weird dream dissipate and he can no longer remember what it was. Likely some kind of nightmare. Jon's been dealing with them his whole life but they seem to have risen in frequency ever since he came here. 

He slowly straightens his muscles, knotted with the sleep that fell on him. Then he takes a look at the vista that splays in front of him.

Cold northern winds blow constantly here. ‘The border of the known world’ the Romans call it. The Wall was built by the order of emperor Hadrian a few decades ago. It’s not very tall, only a few metres high, made of stone and bricks. It goes for miles and miles from west to east. It’s not really a barrier, more of a frontier. You can pass through if you will. 

Jon tries to gather his cloak tighter around his shoulder to shelter himself against the frigid cold of the night. He look towards North. Towards the lands of the people the Wall is supposed to protect the oh so mighty empire from. The truth is, Romans are just too scared of the northern clans living in the colds of Caledonia.

 And people living North the Wall aren’t really… fond of Romans.

That, to his dismay, also includes him.

Jon's been stationed at the Wall for several months now, moved here from the garrison further south where he had spent 5 years since his forced recruitment at the age of 16. He was born a bastard. A crime he’s not responsible for, but which has been staining him for all of his life. A son of an unknown woman and a local Briganti lord. 

Servants, when questioned, told him that one day his father appeared with a bundle in his arms, stating that it’s his son and he is to be raised along with other children. Yet, his step-mother had no love for him. Jon’s pretty sure that it’s her doing that had him relocated so very far away from Isurium, at the very border of the empire. 

Locals don’t make up auxiliary units, he’s the only one here, among some one hundred latin speaking, darker skinned men.

To say that Jon is not liked by other soldiers, would be an understatement.

A bastard. A savage. 

His pale skin and grey eyes, so strikingly different than other men, make him stand out. It even got him his nickname, Snow. That and a faded unknown mark on his inner bicep. Catelyn kept calling it 'a whore mother bastard mark,' so he learned not to show it. No one he asked could tell what the mark was or meant. With years it faded and he usually doesn't remember he has it.

He sighs and grips the sword on his hip to comfort himself, even if a little. Even the swords here seemed wrong. The blade, called gladius by the soldiers, seemed too light, too short. His hands are more used to longswords he used to train with.

He misses his siblings, or half siblings as Catelyn loved to remind him. Robb, only a few months younger… his best friend. Jon hasn’t seen him nor his younger sisters for over 5 years. He wonders if his youngest brothers even remember him at this point. Or if Catelyn made them believe he’s not worth remembering.

Jon shudders again, the thin fabric on his shoulders not providing enough warm during the cold autumn night. He doesn’t have his helmet on, the thing only wearing him down and not providing any aid against the cold. Jon scans the hills but can't see anything. Only dim lights of a milecastles up west and east from his garrison. 

Honestly, he can understand the Picts and Caledonians. He doesn’t have a love for the Romans, and wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t forced into it. The southerners don't like him. His current placement on top if the icy cold Wall at night is his punishment for refusing to shave. He prides himself on his raven black hair. He was forced into cutting it short, but managed to save his short beard. No one really cares how anyone looks here. But their commander seems to really dislike him. Jon thinks Thorne may have turned bullying him into his personal hobby. Jon hates this place.

He scratches his bearded chin, one more thing that makes him stand out. For some reason, all the Romans prefer to shave their faces. If he was in actual legion, not just auxiliary, he’d be forced into it too. No, thanks.

“Hey, bastard!” Jon prickles and grits his teeth but doesn’t respond. Sadly, as a fellow soldier, he can't pretend he doesn't understand latin. It's not his native, but he's fluent in it due to the education his father's wife enforced on him.

He waits for the other soldier to approach him. He’s used to being picked on, but had also learned  that ignoring provocation leads to other men leaving him alone, bored with the lack of reaction from him. Eventually, they leave him alone.

“Don’t sleep on guard,” barks Janos, one of the officers. The older man passes him and Jon ignores him. The lack of reaction must have annoyed the man, because he suddenly stops. Jon groans internally, waiting for more taunts to come. 

“I’m not asleep,” Jon replies, as calmly as he can.

“I’m not asleep, sir .” The man corrects him. Jon rolls his eyes. He's so tired of this.

“I can tell.” He throws and smirks on the inside when the officer’s face goes red.

“Careful now, Snow. Or you’ll be cleaning the latrines.”

Jon prickles at the name.

“I’m awake, sir. I’m observing the northern hills, sir. Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”

“Keep on. We don’t need that fucking Pict attacking us here” The man replies, obviously not noticing the mockery in Jon’s voice. He's not sure if he should feel annoyed or relieved.

“Aye, sir.” Jon’s too tired for any more discussions. He watches the man walk away and sighs. The fucking Pict. The painted man. That would be Tormund Giantsbane, one of the Caledonian war chiefs. A man of such a reputation, Romans shit themselves at the very mention of his name. He keeps hearing endless stories about the man. How he’s taller than a giant. How he can turn into a bear. How he can break a man in half. Jon chuckles. What’s sure is that a man is a formidable warrior and strategist. His band attacks in the complete silence and there are few who made it out alive.

The Picts as the Romans call them are his distant kin, but he’s never met any of them. The painted people don’t travel south, focused on protecting their land instead. This doesn't mean he doesn't fear them. He may be their kin, but officially he's a Roman soldier, their enemy.

Romans fear them, and not without a reason. The very Wall where he’s stationed at was constructed out of fear of them. A rumour says that en entire legion, over 5000 men, just disappeared among the misty hills and mountains of Caledonia. Mysterious magics rule the northern lands and Jon can’t stop the shiver that goes through his spine at the thought.

Jon smiles when the first rays of the morning sun finally hit his face, painting the hills, yellow, pink and red. A sign that his night guard has ended. He stands straighter, observing the beautiful sight, but startles at a sudden presence. He must really be tired.

“Saw Janos on my way here, he looked quite annoyed. You wouldn’t know anything about that now, would you?” comes an amused snicker. A strong arm wraps around his in the form of a greeting. Edd, one of only two men Jon could name as his friend, smiles sleepily at him.

The garrison is slowly waking up, sleepy Romans pass him, ever scowling in his direction.

“No, I have no idea what you’re talking about. That’s his everyday expression,” Jon answers innocently.

His friend chuckles at that as he walks him in the direction of their tents, but his expression soon turns solemn. Jon’s smile disappears. “Did something happen?”

“Yeah… Me, Sam, Grenn, Pyp  and thirty one others got delegated to another fort, 20 miles west. There were sightings of the Picts there and they fear their garrison isn’t strong enough.”

Jon tries to school his expression into a neutral one at these words. They're the only soldiers that don’t treat him like dirt. Without their company, this place will turn only worse. "Where are they? Why are you alone?"

"They're already at the southern gate. I managed to get away with forgetting my helmet to come to let you know.

“Wait!” comes a panting voice. Both men turn around to see a big man running to them gasping for air. Jon catches him in a hug tight. “Thank you, Sam. Please don’t get in trouble because of me,” Jon says quietly. “If they’re in such a hurry, you two should go,” he adds, letting go of his friend. Sam has tears in his eyes, he notes solemnly. Of course Thorne would make it so he’s left all alone.

“This is goodbye then.” He says quietly.

“Just a farewell, brother,” Edd says, somehow sounding unsure. Jon really wants to believe him. “I’m sure it won’t be for long,” Jons murmurs tiredly.

“You must sleep, we’re keeping you up,” Edd says gripping his shoulder. "And Jon? Don't let them get to you," he adds, embracing Jon in a tight hug. 

He hugs his friends firmly, but at some point has to let go.

He watches them rush in the direction of the southern gate for a few moments before turning back towards the barracks. Jon's exhausted after having to spend the entire night on top of the wall. 

It seems that it's not going to be his day.

"Snow!"

Jon groans, this time almost audibly, recognising the voice of his commander. "Yes, sir?" he turns around tiredly.

"Where do you think you're going?" the older soldier barks at him as he approaches Jon.

Jon measures his words carefully, he's too tired to deal with more possible punishments. "To the barracks," he finally says.

"You can't possibly think you get to sleep?" Alisser Thorne towers over him but Jon doesn't cower. He stops a curse from leaving his mouth. "You have the morning training, soldier."

Jon tries really hard not to snap at his commander. Soldiers are allowed to sleep after a night watch, but his was unscheduled, it was a punishment. Apparently his commander doesn't think he deserves sleep. Which means he's going to be up for 2 days without rest.

"Alright, sir," he finally says and grips his small sword in hopes of reassuring himself. It doesn't help much.

Jon squares his shoulders and goes in the direction of what they use for training grounds. He's so tired. The cold night didn't act to his favour and he's trembling, possibly getting sick. His mood sours even more when he doesn't see any of his friends among the scowling men. He curses Throne for sending them away, for leaving him alone among unfriendly faces.

He's so very tired.

Jon thanks himself for his skill with a sword, that’s the only thing that lets him survive the training against the much betterl rested soldiers. Unlike many, Jon’s been trained to use a sword since early childhood. He may have been a bastard, but his father wanted all his sons trained. That’s how he manages not to get beaten too badly. He doesn’t so much attack but parries, trying to focus on defensive, knowing that this way he can save some strength for later. They’re clad in their light armours, just ringmail and helmets, nothing like regular legionnaires wear. It’s considerably lighter though, more fitting his fighting style.They fight only with wooden training swords, but a hit would still leave deep bruises. Still, Jon’s happy he collected only a few so far.

“Is that all you can do, you damn savage?’” his opponent yells at him. Jon raises his weapon, still in the defense stance, waiting for the attack to come. He’s heard this way too many times for insults like these have any effect on him. He may be tired, but not enough to get provoked. This man, his name was Karl, had been taunting Jon from day one. Never giving up, despite Jon trying to ignore him each and every time. 

Finally, Karl rushes. His patience must have ended. Jon pretends to brace himself for the impact, but at the last moment sidesteps his opponent, letting the man rush past him. Jon turns as fast as possible and lands a hit, marking the end of his turn. Jon stretches his back painfully and looks in the direction of their overseer. The man nods at him, the gesture barely there, and Jon finally removes his helmet.

He’s so tired, muscles aching from both the cold of the night and those few hits that now must show blood in dark bruises on his ribs. Jon wants nothing more than to just lay down and sleep, but his body betrays him and a low rumble of his stomach makes him stop. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday and his body demands energy. With a sigh, he moves in the direction of a room the soldiers use for a canteen. He finds there some old bread and the very last bits of a stew, now mostly old vegetables. The soldiers were served at dawn. 

Jon sits in a corner of a room, used to occupying those at his father's house. This way he feels more comfortable, being less visible. He scratches absentmindedly over his chin and once more mourns his beard with how little hair there is. His growing beard is one more distinction he tries to set between himself and other soldiers.  No matter, it's just hair. It will grow back. Till Thorne uses it as an excuse for another punishment. Jon sighs. He's already been here for months. It doesn't seem like his situation would change soon.

As the day passes, Jon starts to hate this place even more than he thought possible. Thorne must really hate him, because the man decided he's to be a part of the scouting party. The patrol along the northern side of wall isn't long, only a few hours, but in this state, Jon really isn't fit to perform his duty. His body aches, both from strain and from bruises on his back. They have to march several kilometres with the stupidly heavy huge shields that Romans use. Fighting with a shortsword and a shield really isn't a style that either suits him or is he trained with. He much prefers light armour and a longsword.

If possible, his mood only sours when it starts to rain. Not that rain is anything he's not used to. It rains almost non stop here. Rain and snow, that's what this land is made of. What upsets him is the rising mists. Were they to be attacked, no one would hear nor see the enemy. It's very unlikely, Jon thinks. After almost a year of being stationed here, he’s never seen a single pictish warrior. It doesn't mean he never met any. The wall works as a border, not a barrier. He's seen the quiet, blue marked people before at the market in Isurium. People were wary of them, especially the Romans, patrolling the town. Sometimes the markings they bore reminded him of the unknown mark on his arm, but when asked they seemed curious but didn’t recognise it. 

Jon’s glad that among the soldiers he’s with, none of them cares much about him. He’s left alone for once.

They’re close to the gate now. Jon turns back and gives one last look at the misty hills slowly getting enveloped by darkness. For a fraction of a second he thinks he sees something, but only notices a flock of birds rising up. Something  must have alerted them. He shrugs. Animals hunt. 

Once they’re inside, a higher ranked ranger gives a report and Jon lets his mind wander, dreaming of only taking his armour off and getting some rest. Jon’s legs guide him to their sleeping quarters, too exhausted to even think about food, despite the low burr of his stomach. He’ll eat in the morning. There aren’t many soldiers here, most of them eating, chatting and possibly drinking whatever they managed to smuggle here.

When he finally changes to a thin sleeping robe, his muscles protest and ache when he lays on his hard cot and covers himself with a thin blanket. One day he’ll die from the cold he sighs. but his body is aching too much to let his thoughts wander. With a sigh, Jon drifts off into sleep.

Dark again.

Rain as well, he’s in the open now that much he can tell. There are no trees surrounding him this time. Very slowly, crouching, he moves forward. The smell picks up with the wind. Men. He can’t spot them, but he knows they’re there. Far in the distance he can see the unnatural stone structure. He knows he can’t walk around it even if he tried. He wants to run further bu-

A feeling of panic wakes him abruptly. It’s dark and he’s covered by something. Jon has no idea where he is or what’s going on. 

Then the pain comes.

Panic rising, Jon realises he can’t move. He’s covered with something, probably his own blanket, and someone holds it down. Another hit, this time to his ribs, drives a scream of pain from his lips. It must have been a kick, by the strength of it. He should have seen it coming. 

“Fucking savage, take this!” a voice he vaguely recognise shouts, and he yelps when his arm gets kicked painfully.

Jon curses himself. Without the help of the only people he could call friends, other soldiers can easily gang up on him. Especially when he’s so very tired. He’s heard of this, a blanket party.  A soldier gets covered in a sheet so he can’t recognise the attackers, who beat him up. Vital parts like the head gets omitted and any bruises and wounds get blamed on sword training.

Jon tries to curl up under the rain of hits and punches. He groans in pain quietly, hoping for his attackers to get bored or believe they injured him enough to get in actual trouble. With the way he feels, the latter may be actually very possible. Once again he curses this place. These people. He hopes that Picts get them all.

Suddenly, Jon realises that the screams of pain aren’t only his own. The curses seem not to be directed to him, the hits lessen as well. 

What scares Jon more, is that some of the shouting isn’t in latin.

He struggles to move but someone is still holding him. There is shouting everywhere, some words he thinks he recognises, but they sound weird to his ears.

"Leave the fucker, run!" he manages to hear among the shouting.

Suddenly the pressure lifts and the blanket he's been enveloped with is lifted.

Panting, Jon slowly lifts his hands, having had then wrapped around his face to protect it from attacks. He opens his eyes, nothing one is so swollen, he can barely keep it open. It's dark bit he can see unknown faces surrounding him. He can see unmoving bodies around him, dark puddles underneath them can be only blood. Jon gulps.

The people around him are hard to spot in the darkness and that's when it finally hits him.

Picts

They're painted in dark blue to not be spotted in the dark.

Jon curses under his breath.

Someone had to hear him because suddenly one of them, a woman, comes closer to him and barks something in his direction. The dialect is… so different, words accented weirdly but he would understand it nonetheless. 'Who are you'

Jon has no idea what to say.

She looks at him for a few more seconds and, then barks and order to someone. Jon can't understand it, bit the word she used reminded him of his native for a leader. Fantastic.

He lays on the floor among dead bodies of people who attacked him when he was the most vulnerable. Anger and spite rise inside Jon. He hates this place. He hates these people. And now he's going to die for their stupid conquest. He spits blood on the floor. Seems like he has some internal bleeding. Not that it matters. The Picts seem unsure what to do.

Only a few seconds pass and the woman comes back, and with her another.

Jon's eyes go wide. 

The man is huge. 

And ginger. A curtain of long partially braided hair falls on the man's blue marked chest.

He knows who that is. 

Tormund Giantsbane.

Jon's so dead.

He spits more  blood on the floor and he tries to get up. His clothes are terribly torn and have dark spots on them. He's practically naked and without a weapon.

He's not going to die lying on the floor though.

He refuses to.

The newly arrived man, no, their chieftain looks down on Jo. Even in the darkness, he can tell the man's eyes are blue.

Giantsbane doesn't say anything, but sheaths his sword. Jon looks around in confusion when others do the same. A painful cough runs through him and Jon staggers and falls to his knees. He curses in his native badly.

He looks into the eyes of their leader, still so quiet and calculating.

Tormund barks an order in a voice too low for Jon to understand in his dazed state.. He jerks when two people moves in his direction and tries once again to stand.

His body must have decided that exhaustion, lack of sleep, and getting beat up is too much for him.

Jon falls, and this time with the ground comes darkness enveloping him.

Chapter Text

The smells are different here.

The Wind sharper and colder.

The trees seem older, more wicked. 

But at the same time, more welcoming.

*

He thinks he wakes sometimes, He’s not sure. At one point he thinks he’s conscious and sees a face surrounded by long red hair. It reminds him of little sister, but that's impossible. It must be a dream.

*

Jon opens his eyes slowly, wincing with pain. His left eye feels swollen and his sight is blurry. The surroundings are not familiar to him when he tries to look around, but he grimaces at the pain that comes with the movement. It’s cold and dark but he can tell he's inside some kind of a tent.

Jon’s confused.

“Rest, feannag ,” a small voice comes from a corner. Jon startles at the sound. The accent is thick and it takes him a moment to recognize the word, but the second word remains a mystery to him. Jon jerks when events come rushing back to him. His first reaction is to bolt, but the elder man sitting in the corner of the small tent hasn’t made any move in his direction. Jon doesn’t need to look at the wrinkled face covered in blue lines to know that the man is a Pict.

“Down. Your wounds,” the man continues. Jon settles slowly, slumping his shoulders and wincing in pain. He has problems understanding the man, his accent so thick and dialect foreign.

“Where am I?” he finally manages to say and coughs as the action brings a painful jab in his chest. “Who are you?” His eye is still swollen and Jon can feel his split lip reopening, blood dripping down his chin slowly. He brushes the red away and can feel rough stubble on his chin. He must have been out for at least one day.

Instead of answering, the man looks at him intently. Jon realises that the man's wearing white. A druid then. No one but them would wear white this clean.

"Why am I here?" he tries again, feeling very weak.

This time the druid answers him slowly. "Because our leader wanted so.”

Jon widens his eyes. 

The memory of the piercing blue eyes gazing at him from beneath dark paint makes Jon shudder.

Tormund Giantsbane.

"Eat," the older man says, and puts a piece of old bread in his hands along with a waterskin.

Jon looks at the entrance and can see silhouettes of men standing guard outside of it. He groans in pain and resignation when he tries to move. Carefully, he places his hand under the weathered blanket and winces when a sharp pain strikes him. Seems like he has at least one or two broken ribs, and something's not entirely right with his right arm. Slowly, Jon rests his body down. But sleep doesn’t come.

He had been aware that he wasn’t a popular person, hell he’d been outright bullied. Yet, he'd tried to avoid any conflicts. In hindsight, he should have expected the other soldiers to take it out on him. 

Long months of never ending trainings and patrols. Each day the very same as the one before. Soldiers were restless, and they needed a scapegoat. Without his friends, there was no one to stand up for him, especially when he was running to exhaustion. But even well-fed and rested, he wouldn't have been able to fight so many opponents, not like that.

And what was it worth.

It wasn't like he wanted to man this fucking wall any more than they did. But he was the foreign one to them. So they saw their chance and took it.

It still doesn't answer why he's here, wherever 'here' is. Nor how have The Picts had gotten inside of their camp without causing alarm.

Jon can feel cold sweat trickling down his back 

How did they get inside? Why was he spared and taken with them?

Jon's not stupid, he knows that a part of it must have been his looks. He is unmistakably a Briton. But why would they take him? He’s their captive, is he going to be their slave? Is he going to get sacrificed? No... he doesn’t think so, their druid wouldn’t have spent time and energy healing him only for him to be killed off. Or maybe he would? The Romans find it ‘cruel and barbaric’ and forbid the tribes they conquer from doing that. Instead, they try to force people into worshipping their own, southern gods. Jon has never heard of anyone around Isurium practicing their own religion. But who knows what the common folk do in forests and around bogs.

*

Jon thinks he might have fallen into a nervous sleep when he’s woken again. This time not so gently. He wakes up violently to long red hair and angry, green eyes. It's the same female warrior he saw earlier.

The woman is clad in a thicker tunic than he had last seen her wearing, he notices. She's angry, barking at him in a hushed voice, but Jon can't understand her speech.

Seeing his confusion, she gets only more angry. He gets shoved and groans in pain. "Stop it, for gods' sake. If you want to kill me, be done with it!"

He musters his face into a scowl that he hopes looks more angry than pathetic.

She looks at him, red in the face and fuming in anger One word falls from her lips, a word he understands.

"Traitor."

Jon can feel anger swelling inside. Traitor to whom? The Romans? His own tribe? Also ruled by the southern cunts? For years he hasn't seen his father nor his siblings. He doesn't even know if they're alive. For years he had to listen to the insults directed at him. For years he had to listen to the Romans calling him a savage. Saying he was likely to betray them. And in the end, who was the one betrayed?

He's about to bark back at the ginger woman when a third voice joins in.

"Ygritte."

Jon looks up from where he's sitting, having tried to get up to confront the woman, to see another ginger, way taller and broader. Behind him walks the old druid he met earlier. The chief doesn't look any less intimidating without the blue dye on his face. The man is incredibly tall, clad in leathers and a woollen cloak. Long hair, now down, falls on his chest. But what strikes Jon the most, is how young the man who drives such fear into the Romans is. Jon expected the warrior chief to be at least in his forties, meanwhile Tormund Giantsbane can't be older than thirty.  But the eyes, which Jon remembers to be so strikingly blue, aren't focused on him.

"Out," the ginger man says in the strange Pict dialect. Jon understands the command.

The woman brittles, getting up from where Jon's sitting, and tries to talk back. However, it seems that the chief's patience is very thin because he cuts her off, growling an order so deeply that it strikes fear down Jon's spine. He begins to understand why the Romans are so afraid of this man.

The woman, now named Ygritte, huffs and leaves the tent with a scowl.

Giantsbane's eyes fall on him and Jon tries to hide the shudder that goes through him. He attempts to get up, and winces when the pain in his side only worsens.

"Sit down," the man says in a tone that has Jon obey without thinking. "She wasn't supposed to come here," the man continues in an annoyed voice. It takes him a second to realise that Giantsbane spoke to him in a dialect way closer to his own, in a way Jon could fully understood. He looks at the man surprised.

"You probably already figured it out, but good manners require to introduce myself. I'm Tormund Giantsbane and that’s our druid Suibhne. You already met my sister... My warriors say I should just behead you and be done with the dead weight slowing us down. Now,  why shouldn't I do that?"

Jon squares his shoulders and brings his eyes up, trying to persuade himself more than the other two men that he's not afraid. This conversation will most likely decide his fate.

"Why did you take me in the first place? If I'm to be your slave why heal me?" Jon bites out, more bitterly than he intended.

Giantsbane arches a bushy eyebrow at his words, eyeing him carefully.

"My warriors saw someone badly beaten up. Someone who obviously wasn't a Roman, could be one of us. And yet wasn't likely to be their prisoner, seeing they found you where the feannagan sleep."

"Feannagan?" Jon repeats the foreign word slowly.

"Crows," supplies Suibhne, speaking for the first time.

The chieftain chuckles at his confused face. "Fucking Romans." He spits the word as if it was poison. “You don't speak our tongue, but it's familiar enough. You're from Eboracum?"

Jon looks at him surprised. "Isurium," Jon says carefully. “How do you know my tongue?" he adds.

"I wasn't made a chieftain for only swinging a sword, boy. Ah, and what was the man from Isurium, our southern kin, doing among the crows?" Giantsbane continues crouching down in front of him, his voice low and dangerous.

"I'm a soldier." Jon doesn't see any sense in lying.

"So the Crows not only steal our land but our people help them now?" the ginger man growls in his face, furious.

This time it's Jon's time to chuckle. He's probably delirious, or perhaps starts to lose his mind. The anger he felt earlier with Ygritte comes back tenfold. "Look at me, I can hardly stand. Do you think I liked being there? I didn't join them because I wanted to. I had to," he almost yells in the face of a man who can probably kill him with a punch to the face. In desperation he shoves the sleeve of his tunic up, showing the inked 'S.P.Q.R.', marking him a Roman soldier till the end of his days. 

The Pict looks at the mark, but bit his eyes go lower,  till they land on the faded symbol inside of Jon's arm.

"How have you gotten this?" The man asks deadly quiet and Jon looks up at the sudden anger in Giantsbane's tone. "Is this supposed to be some kind of a crow joke?!" The man straightens up and if Jon thought The Pict was angry before, it had nothing on the state the man is in now. And Jon isn't entirely sure of the cause.

But he doesn't step down, fury and fever surging through him.

"What does it matter to you?! I've had it for as far as I can remember.  No one could ever answer what it is."

He fully expects to be punched, the blue eyes looking at him icily.

That's when the older man cuts in, observing the mark intently, but then gazing up at the chief.

"It doesn't matter, Tormund."

The chieftain looks down at the druid. There seems to be some unspoken conversation going between the two of them, because the ginger man closes his eyes to calm himself down. When he does, it's as if nothing interrupted his interrogation. Because that's what it is, Jon's aware.

"Tell me then, crow. If you're their soldier, why were you bleeding out on the ground?"

Jon's shoulders slump and he looks Giantsbane in the eyes, "I haven't done anything. Nothing to outright provoke them," Jon says steadily tired and wincing in pain. "They weren't likely trying to kill me. I guess they tried to... show me my place," he can't help but bitterly chuckle at the last words, his emotions and hurt getting the better of him.

The Pict looks at him, a shadow of amusement going through his face.

"What is your name, boy?"

"Jon," he says quietly after a moment.

“No fancy last name?”.

"I'm a bastard," he shrugs, too tired. It doesn't matter. A bastard, a soldier, now slave most likely. It's not like his life ever mattered much. He doesn't notice the exchanged look between the two men. "The Romans nicknamed me 'Snow',” he adds.

"Jon Snow then?"

"You could say that," Jon's response is resigned. What does it matter what he's called at this point. Yet, he dares a question.

"How did you get inside the garrison?" His eyes meet the cold blue ones, and he can see the lightest amusement dance within them.

"What makes you think you're in position to question me?" The giant man is toying with him. Jon feels panic rising slowly within him. He dares a look towards the entrance of the tent. He knows in his state and surrounded by the Picts he wouldn't make 5 metres, but the fever and anxiety makes people try worse things.

He gulps, before asking the most important question. "What are you going to do with me?"

“Well, little crow, you may not be a Roman but you’re still their man,” the chief muses, straightening up.

“If you think there is anyone willing to get me back, or pay for me, you’ll be disappointed, I’m just a foot soldier,” Jon says grimly.

Giantsbane ignores his words. “We have some wounded men, that’s why we set a camp. But we march at dawn. Sleep what you can, we won’t wait for you, boy. If you can’t keep up, we can always lift the burden of your legs.” Giantsbane smirks darkly before leaving, the quiet druid following without a word.

Jon looks after them dumbfounded. Still unsure of his fate. Is he a prisoner? A captive? A slave? Jon looks through the small opening in the flaps of the tent and sees sparkling white in the moonlight. He's shocked. It's way too early for snow. Just how far north are they? But snow is also the reason why the warriors brought tents with them. It seems too spacious for just one person so Jon isn't all too surprised to see Suibhne back, again very quiet. He's even less surprised when a length of rope gets tied around his wrists and arms, effectively rendering his hands useless. Jon lets it happen, without complaint. He is aware that the Pict could be treating him far worse. At least he's alive, unlike many of the Romans.

Suddenly, the realisation hits him.

Sam and Edd.

If their garrison got attacked by the Picts, what happened to his friends?

As if sensing his unrest, the druid, looks at him quizzically. "What is it boy? Don't ask about your fate, it won't be decided tonight."

Jon completely ignores his words, "What happened to the soldiers heading west? You must have seen them if you attacked the fort," Jon asks frantically, his own fate suddenly mattering less to him than the answer to this question..

The druid measures him with a look, his wrinkled face covered in blue curving lines, unreadable. After a moment, he finally speaks.

"We dressed one of us in crow clothes and made him send a message that help was needed elsewhere. You believed in it instantly, like children. I know not of their fate, but it's likely better than those who remained." It takes Jon a moment to understand the words, the druid not as fluent in his tongue as his chieftain.

It doesn't make Jon feel all that much better, realising now that they got tricked. There was no call for support. They got intentionally weakened.

Jon lays down on the ground, knowing any attempt of escape is futile, especially in his state. Maybe he can manage to gain some information and run?

And what did they about that mark of his? As a child he kept asking his father, even his wife, their servants, foreigners. No one could tell him. Jon raises his arm and tries to trace the mark on his arm in the dark. It resembles a twice broken arrow with a circle on one side. The lines of it stretched and greyish blue. Could it be some kind of a Pictish symbol? The colour indeed resembles their ink, but so does the Roman symbols above it. But he has asked Picts in the past and no one could really tell.

He muses on it till exhaustion overcomes him and Jon falls into sleep.

*

When he next wakes, several hours had passed. The Pictish druid jerks him, gently enough not to cause him harm, but strong enough to wake him up. Jon panics at first, not recognising his surroundings and not being able to move his hands. It takes him a few seconds to come to himself, and then he looks at Suibhne.  

“Get up, we need to move, before Crows come,” the man barks at him. Jon slowly gets up, trying to not make a face at his wounds. He’s had it worse. Seems that standing isn’t a problem for him, but walking may be another story. He’s not surprised that his bounds stay, but when he goes out from the tent, he’s met with foreign faces. There is a mix of men and women. About twenty of them. Under the cover of the night, he’s not surprised that they got inside so easily. Jon tries to feel bad about the Romans who died under their swords, spears and arrows, but he realises he can’t really.

Jon doesn’t get to think about his situation for long, because one of the men comes to him with a piece of cloth and says something in their weird dialect. Jon doesn’t understand, and the man must notice because he huffs and brings the cloth to his face. Jon panics and bolts back, making the man curse and someone from behind catches his arms, immobilising him. The piece of cloth is wound around his eyes and Jon hisses "What's that for?"

"We don't trust you, and we don't want you to learn where our village is, in case you try running back to your crows," a low burr that Jon recognises as Giantsbane replies, somewhere to his left.

"And how long am I supposed to walk like this??" 

"You'll see. Oh right, you won't." The Pict laughs at his joke, and Jon has no other option than to obey.

They march out soon after, Jon without his vision and with hands bound. He's only wearing a pair of shoes he never takes off due to cold, and a thin tunic in which he went to sleep who knows how many nights before. 

Jon tries to get to know his surroundings. There are two warriors on his sides and more in front of him and behind. It's safe to assume they march in a column and don't need him bound more. If he tried to escape, he'd be caught or shot instantly. He's very careful where he puts his feet, not wanting to trip or worse. The ground seems to slowly rise, and he can feel roots underneath his shoes.

They march for hours, and Jon tries very hard to ignore the hunger in his belly. His only solace is the knowledge that the Picts must be equally hungry.

 With his sight impaired, he has to count more on his other senses. Jon listens intently to his surroundings, to the sounds of the forest but also to the Picts, speaking with each other in hushed voices.

With nothing better to do other than move forward carefully, Jon tries to listen to the warriors. Their dialect is strange and Jon can understand very few words, but they seem to talk about the Romans. Jon understands their word for crows. It seems that they expect to be followed by the soldiers. Jon wants to laugh, but then he'd get their attention and he doesn't want that. The warriors don't talk to him nor jab at him and Jon wishes for it to stay that way.

There is no way that Romans would follow them. The southerners fear the Picts, and given the situation he's currently in, with due respect.Perhaps if the Picts had captured the garrison's commander Romans would follow this far...but not for him.. Even the patrols they send north don't come more than a few kilometres into the hills, always coming back the same day. And there are no forests this anywhere close to the area they range.

But he's not about to tell Picts that.

Jon realises he must be quite far north by now.

He doesn't know how many hours they've been marching. Cold wind is seeping into his bones and his tired legs are starting to trip. He hears some commotion up front. Suddenly the cloth on his eyes is removed. Jon blinks at the sudden light of fire from Picts' torches. It's already late evening, meaning they marched the whole day with no food nor rest. Jon has no idea how he managed it in his state.

Someone lights up a fire and the warriors sit around it, talking among each other. Unsure what to do, Jon looks around and spots the druid walking in his direction. Without a word the man hands a piece of old bread and cheese, along with waterskin. Jon nods his thanks and sits down, exhaustion hitting him. He can see that the warriors observe him subtly, no doubt expecting him to try and escape. Jon knows better than that.

"Crow." Jon looks up and sees Giantsbane approach him.

"Pict," he replies grimly and the man smirks at him slightly.

"How far north do crows range?" the man asks, sitting across from him. The warriors look at them way less subtly now.

Jon had expected this. He assumed that the main reason for taking him was learning about the Romans.

He's conflicted.

He's spent so long time within the army. He remembers how excited he was years ago to join. Only to be met with the sad reality. From day one he was mocked.  A boy of fifteen, paler than any of the Roman men. They didn't try to befriend him and his sword skills only brought him envy and hatred from his 'brothers'. He grew quiet and distant fast. Speaking only when asked to and avoiding everyone. It wasn't until he was moved up north to The Wall when he met the only people he could call friends. He supposes he should actually be thankful to Thorne for trying to alienate him. By moving Sam and Edd to another milecastle, the commander could have saved their lives. 

Jon thinks about the night he was taken, of how he got beaten up, called a savage, how the soldiers yelled to leave him and run.

Then it hits him.

They not only hurt him, they also intentionally left him to be killed.

Decision made, he looks up at the keen blue eyes observing him, and starts talking.

Chapter Text

Tormund sits down on a chair gruffly after a long day of solving quarrels and disputes among his people.

Leading his men to battle is less tiring than some of the issues among his men. Ahearn accusing Bricriu of theft while not having any proof. Berit claiming she was sold stale produce by Maeve, Aislinn informing him that they don’t have enough furs for the coming winter… As much as he loves helping his people, there are times he feels extremely exhausted.

It's been several years since they managed to push the crows south behind their damn wall. They retook their lands and sacred groves, but the damn crows still remain, occasionally still trying to venture north. 

Tormund has been their chieftain for seven years, taking over for his father is an unlikely succession. The Kaldis choose their leader, and choosing the late's chieftain's son is very rare. Ever since his succession, he's made it his goal to protect his people from the crows and possibly push them further south. He's led many raiding parties and soon his name became known and feared.

They live way too close to the damn crow wall, only four days of fast marching. Some people feel unsafe because of that. But the majority of the clan doesn't want to move elsewhere or further north. After all, their small is comfortable, hidden among the hills and forests.

Tormund sighs and starts untying his braids to brush his hair out.

Thinking about crows…Tormund's not entirely sure what to do with the boy. The boy… more like a young man. Jon Snow.

When Torsten came to tell him about their find, he’d been in the middle of cleaning his sword into a tunic of a fallen crow. Torsten told him they had found some kin. When he came over to investigate, he saw a man in torn clothes, badly bruised and bleeding, struggling to get up. He could tell the man wasn't one of them, but also… didn't look like one of the crows. For one, his skin was pale, not tanned from a life spent under the scorching sun of the south. But his hair was darker than night. At first, Tormund thought the crow was but a boy. But he's not a boy, he's a young man. From the looks of it, maybe seven or eight years younger than Tormund.

Hair brushed out, Tormund starts weaving it back, this time in a simple single braid falling on his back.

The man's dialect is undoubtedly that of their southern Briganti kin, the ones defeated now ruled by the crows. Were the man a southerner, a true Toman, Tormund would have beheaded him in seconds. But the raw defiance he saw in the man's dark eyes made him halt. Jon Snow got beaten up by his brothers, men who should have supported each other, not betray. This much is obvious to him. It sickens Tormund to think of the men of his own tribe treated that way. Forced to serve in the army of those who wished to conquer them, all while suffering their abuse and hatred.

He's not entirely sure what to do with Snow. Technically, the man is their enemy. But at the same time, it's obvious that Romans aren't his friends. As a chieftain, Tormund can't show indecision. A lot of his men expect him to turn the crow into a slave. But… he's not keen on doing that.

When he questioned the man about Crows' manoeuvres the man seemed conflicted at first. He saw the hurt in Jon Snow's eyes, but soon it turned to steel. Before long, the man started giving them valuable information.

The didn't act like the other Romans they had captured. Jon Snow could actually be useful.

Tormund's not stupid. He knows better than to trust a traitor. But from what he learned, Snow was the betrayed one.

The man owes other crows nothing.

He'd be willing to accept the man to his tribe, but he can't trust the Brigantii just yet.

Also that mark on his arm…if it indeed is what he and the old druid think it is… Tormund had decided to simply observe Jon Snow for now. And what a better way to do it than to keep him close.

Tormund stretches and walks out to the backyard of his house.

The young man doesn't notice him, busy working on cleaning logs and branches from mouldy bark to prepare for drying. The place is separated from the woods by a small fence to keep wild animals away.

Tormund takes a moment to observe the foreign man. Jon Snow isn't bound, not exactly. There is an iron cuff around the man's right wrist, showing his captive status, but it doesn't restrict the movement of his hands. The man had healed well, only faint bruises covering his arms now after two weeks living here.

The man is intelligent. Tormund noticed him listening to his people, and is sure that the southerner has learned their speech more than he's willing to show. Their dialects aren't that different after all. He's given Jon Snow some jobs to do. Cleaning, herding animals, gathering wood. Nothing requiring a weapon or a sharp tool. The term crow really suits him. His hair is black as night and the man is quiet, almost brooding. Tormund's intrigued.

"Anything you want from me?"

Tormund looks up. Jon Snow is still turned away but had noticed Tormund anyway, despite his silent entry into the yard. He can't help but be impressed. He wonders how good of a hunter the man could be.

Truthfully, he hasn't talked to the captive much. Too busy with everyone's problems and with the preparation for winter.

"Been wondering why is it you haven't tried to run yet. You're not bound after all."

The crow stills and finally turns to look at him from where he's sitting working.

"I'm alone, surrounded by people trained to hunt and kill. I don't know the terrain nor my current location. And where would I go? If I by any chance reached the wall, how would I explain to my… brothers that the local savage somehow survived your raid?" Snow bites out bitterly. The words must have been brewing in him for some time. The man is spiteful and has guts to talk to him like that. Tormund finds it both intriguing and refreshing.

Instead of answering, he comes over and sits down on a log across from Jon Snow and sips some mead from the wineskin he has at his hip. Intense, grey eyes stare up at him defiantly.

"You're not stupid," he finally says. "Is this the same reason why you never ran from the crows?"

Snow's eyebrows go up at his question. He pulls his sleeve up again, again showing him the symbols of crow language inked on his arm. And again, Tormund's eyes fall on the mark below that.

 "Anyone who sees these letters will have me reported. The punishment for desertion is death."

Ah…so the man has nowhere to go.

"I tried my best. Nineteen more years and I'd be discharged," the man says dryly, rolling his sleeve back down. "I followed orders.I didn't even protest when they moved me up here to the wall. Just waiting for my years to be up."

Nineteen years? That was most of a man's youth, his good fighting years, good living years. How long were crow sentences?

Snow notices his reaction and continues, voice quiet, "My service is...was to take twenty five years." More cleaned branches add on the pile between them.

Tormund couldn't even imagine it. So much life given away, forced to serve those that hated you.

He observes the man. Snow's hair is wilder now, black and curly; face covered in a faint beard. He looks more mature than when they found him. Whoever the man's parents are, they did a fucking good job.

He shakes himself from these thoughts. It doesn't matter how pretty the crow is if he can't be trusted. He can't let himself be swayed by something as simple as beauty."

"I see," the chief finally says, getting up. "It's getting late, crow. Get some food and rest. You'll help with food preservation tomorrow." 

As he turns to go, the crow calls him again.

"Giantsbane."

The usage of his title makes him turn back around.

Jon Snow looks at him. Eyes dark and bold. Then he raises his right hand. Metal glints in the rays of the setting sun.

"Am I your slave?"

Tormund gives him a long look, till the man squirms just slightly. His voice is firm as he carefully answers the question.

"You're my captive." And with that, he turns and lives him alone. 

He’d decided to observe the man for now. Snow hasn't had much interaction with the rest of the tribe so far, but he’s seen how people look at him with distrust and disdain. He also noticed the man keeps to himself, doesn't interact with anyone unless he has to. That wouldn't do. It could be trouble. With thoughts of the crow swirling in his head, Tormund drifts to sleep, knowing new responsibilities await him in the morning.

*

The next day he's busy checking the stocks of grain and dried meat they'll be needing when the winter storms come. Their druid had told him that according to his divinations the first serious storm should come in two, maybe three weeks. The old man was his teacher when he was a boy and an adviser to the previous chieftain. Now to him as well. He trusts the man with both his advice and supernatural matters.

His investigation gets interrupted when he hears some shouting and sees Mael’s boy running to him.

"Chief, please come. It's that slave you brought."

It takes him a moment to realise who the boy is talking about. He grits his teeth. Snow’s status is ambiguous. He’s not fully free. But calling the man a slave doesn’t sit well with him.  Before he can ask what the problem is, the boy runs in the direction of the village centre where already people are gathering.

When he arrives, he sees Snow, being held by Cerdic and Ninian. Another two men hold down Drust, better known to everyone as Rattleshirt due to all the bones of killed crows he wears. Rattleshirt is easily spotted having had his face inked to resemble a skull. He was among those who called for Snow’s head the most. It doesn’t really surprise Tormund that he’d try something. Yet, he needs to know what has happened.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demands firmly, looking between the two men.

“That fucking slave of yours doesn’t know his place and attacked me. So I decided to show him his place,” Rattleshirt growls.

Tormund’s nostrils flare. If Snow was indeed his slave, it’d be Tormund’s role to discipline him, and Rattleshirt knows it. The man has been a nuisance, always complaining and trying to find excuses to defy his orders. Tormund’s patience is growing thin.

He doesn’t say anything to that and instead looks at the crow. The man looks at him boldly. “Speak, feannag. I know you can,” the orders and smirks at how Snow’s eyes widen in surprise. So he was right about the man learning their language.

“I was going to work on food…” the man stops trying to think of a word “preparations” he finally adds in his own dialect. “He, “ Snow points at the other man, “he came and pushed?” he looks up for confirmation of the word and Tormund nods slowly, listening intently. “He pushed me and said I was in the way.” Snow stumbles on his words, accent not entirely correct, but he understood what the man said.

“Is that so? Any witnesses to that?” He looks among the gathered people but no one speaks up. 

“We found them fighting on the ground but we couldn’t tell who started it,” Cerdic says, still gripping Snow, despite the man being calm.

“What does it matter? He’s nothing, a slave,” Rattleshirt spits in Snow’s direction.

Tormund comes closer and crouches in front of the man, making him gulp. With a stoic face, he says “It matters because he’s a captive, not a slave.” He rises slowly and continues “As it is, we can’t tell who attacked whom.” Tormund is almost positive it was Rattleshit, but he has no proof of that and he needs to be just. “Does any of you admit it?”

“I didn’t attack him,” Snow growls.

“Yes, he did.” Drust denies, not even looking at the other man.

Tormund wills himself not to grind his teeth. He doesn’t need this right now.

“Since we can’t tell who started it, and we can’t settle it. Let the tradition settle it. Combat it is.”

Some gathered make disapproving faces, but most of them nod. Others seem excited, looking forward to the entertainment.

“You can’t be serious. I’m not going to fight a fucking crow in a duel!” Rattleshirt squirms and the men holding him let go.

Tormund can feel anger surging up his spine. He comes to the man again. “Last I remembered, of the two of us, it’s me who’s a chieftain. If I said you’re going to do it, you’re going to do it.” Tormund almost growls.

“He’s a crow!”

“What, are you afraid of losing to one?” he taunts and the gathered people erupt in laughter and snickers.

“And you!” he turns to Snow, who’d been released when the men noticed he wasn’t going to thrash against them. “Do you have any objections?”

“No.”

Pleased, Tormund turns to one of the men and sends him for the needed weapons.

“Since the squabble isn’t serious, you’re not going to fight till death, but till the other yields. Understood?”

The crowd moves back, leaving the crow and Rattleshirt in the middle. Both men nod.

Snow seems like a quiet and broody type to him. The whole situation must have been something the man has been trying to avoid here. But Tormund has to act like a chieftain. He can't sympathize or show favour to either man.

He’s brought a pair of old, dull swords. The blades are long and well balanced, identical in shape and weight.

“What do I get if I win?” Rattleshirt goes and Tormund raises his eyebrow, amused. 

“You won’t get punished for attacking someone. Where he my slave, it would still not give you a right to discipline him.” he goes and can see a panicked look rises on the warrior's face. Good, the man has been on his nerves for years now.

“Same goes to you, Snow,” he says and the man gives him a stern look.

Tormund doesn’t know how good of a fighter the crow is, but the other man is undeniably skilled and experienced. He has no idea how the combat will result, which is the reason he decided on this form of settling the issue.

The men take their blades and Snow checks the sword he was given. Tormund realizes it's the first time since he arrived here that the man's held any kind of weapon.

The two stand opposite of each other, in the middle of the gathering, and are watching one another intently. 

"You can begin," Tormund says, stepping aside.

Drust doesn't wait and instantly lunges towards the crow. The man must have predicted it from the start because Snow jumps to the side and turns to block the coming attack with his blade.

Tormund rises his brow, watching intently.

Rattleshirt attacks again and just like before, Snow dodges the sword.

"That's it crow? Too afraid to fight?"

He wants to laugh. He can't be possibly this stupid not to notice that Snow is testing him, possibly trying to tire him down. It required only a few moves to tell that the man is a skilled swordsman. What interests him more is the way the crow moves. He's not sure if Rattelshirt noticed, but Jon Snow doesn't fight like other crows do. He fights like they do.

Crows use way shorter blades, more useful for thrusting than swinging, very unlike the longer blades they use. But the man doesn't seem awkward using it. No, he uses it as if it was a natural part of his body. Tormund can't help but spread his lips in a dark smirk. The man turns out to be more and more interesting.

Drust keeps shouting insults at the man, but if Snow understands them, he doesn't show it or care. He keeps dodging and parrying, only occasionally attacking himself. His attacks seem sloppy, but Tormund can tell the man does it on purpose. He’s trying to trick Rattleshirt into believing he's bad. His smirk turns darker. Tormund's starting to like this man.

Rattleshirt lunges and this time lands a pretty ugly looking hit on Snow's side, making the man grunt in pain. Tormund furrows his brows, it was easily avoidable. The man stumbles and Drust is on him, hitting him again. The hit on the man's hip, making his trip.

He can see some people cheering, when the raider stands over the crow, sword to his throat, and barks "yield."

Snow looks at him, and Tormund can see his dark eyes almost glow with determination.

In a blink of an eye, Snow rolls on the ground, picks up his previously dropped blade and in a flurry of fast movement lunges towards confused Drust, hitting him in the face with the pommel of his sword.

Tormund grins.

Rattleshirt falls to the ground, blood bursting from his nose. Jon Snow steps on the man's hand till he releases the handle of his sword. Snow crouches over the man's chest and brings his sword to Drust's throat and spits "You yield."

The silence that has fallen is palpable, gathered people gaping. One of the most famous raiders got tricked like a child, easily.

Rattleshirt goes red in the face and tries to throw the crow off a bit, to no avail.

"I said, yield ," Snow growls, pressing the dull blade closer, not cutting but surely restraining his airflow. The man struggles again and chokes on the blood falling from his broken nose.

"I yield." The man finally grunts, eyes full of hate. He can see Jon Snow smirk down at the man, before letting him go. To his surprise, there are a few cheers. Some apparently have more dislike towards Rattleshirt than a captive crow. Not that surprising. Apart from his small group of followers, Drust isn't much liked. He's been Tormund's sore spot for years. He can't help but enjoy seeing his ass handed to him on his own request.

"That settles it," Tormund announces.

Rattleshirt glares at Snow hatefully, but the man only stares, face unreadable. The men hand back the training blades and move back to their responsibilities. He watches Snow walk alone in the direction of the small hut food is stored in.

“He’s good,” comes a familiar voice. Tormund glances to the side to see Ygritte watching the man get up.

His sister seems to have calmed down ever since the day she attacked the wounded man in Suibhne’s tent. If Tormund disliked Drust, Ygritte openly hated the man. Rattleshirt had tried numerous times to woo her, despite her blatant lack of interest in him, or men. He wanted to interfere, but his sister could take care of herself.

“Aye,” he says simply.

“Have you decided yet what to do with him? You said he’s not your slave. What is he then?”

Tormund looks down at his sister. She’s seven years younger than him, a spirit wild just like the fire their hair is kissed with. He knows he can trust her.

“It depends. Seems like the man has nowhere to go.”

The two of them had talked about Snow before when Tormund approached his sister about sneaking up on the man. He was really angry with her then. She thought that Snow was one of them, a northerner who betrayed them to join the crows. After he told her what he had learned about the man, she was regretful of her actions.

“Would you let him join us?”

“Perhaps,” he admits.

“Come on,” she says. When he looks at her, she’s smirking up at him. “I saw how you looked at him, brother.”

Tormund startles and can feel his face redden a bit. “I was watching him to assess his fighting skills. To see if he can be of use to us.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Tor.”

The man is undoubtedly handsome. Strong jaw, bold and daring eyes, jet black hair. But would Tormund want him? He’s not sure. He barely knows the man, and his position is still very uncertain. And he definitely is not one to just take, without approval. But he can’t deny that today fight was impressive. 

Snow gained an enemy. But he might have also gained some allies. He thinks on it as he watches Ygritte walk away.

The rest of the day passes in relative peace.

Rattleshirt’s friends brought him to the druid to try to set the man’s nose right. He was told that Snow hadn't been seen leaving the chore he was assigned to. Reassured none of the men are causing any more problems, Tormund focused on his duties for the rest of the day.

When he arrives back home after the sun has set, he finds Snow already there, applying some salve to his side. The flesh has bloomed dark purple with a long bruise.

"Good fight, little crow," he greets the man. Jon Snow stills and looks up at him, before nodding, not being able to hide irritation about the nickname. "Was it really necessary?" he adds. The salve smells of herbs and Tormund recognises it as one of Suibhne's.

"Was what necessary?" Snow looks up at him now, and Tormund notices that the man's jaw is swollen, no doubt Drust's doing.

"Come on now, you're smarter than that," he says, eyebrow arching in wonder.

Snow stills, looking uncertain and Tormund realises the man's unsure if he can speak freely.

"You can speak freely," he says before crossing his arms and leaning against a tree.

"He fell for it," Snow finally says and winces when he brushes over the darkened flesh.

"Aye, he did. But it cost you."

"That's how life is," Snow says cryptically and Tormund huffs.

"Who started it?"

The crow looks at him then and looks long, calculating. Tormund can tell the man is still nervous, choosing his words carefully.

"He did."

Tormund nods, having expected that. Silence falls between them.

"What do you want from me, really? You don't treat me like a slave, but I can't go free," the man says grimly.

"And where would you go?" Tormund jabs back.

Snow just looks at him solemnly, before dropping his eyes.

"Why not just force me to tell you everything I know and kill me?

Tormund realises that the man is right. Were he a true Roman, he'd do just that. Yet… he's unwilling to do that. The black-haired man fascinates him, he must admit. If only to himself.

"Because you're a crow and yet you don't speak, act nor fight like one."

And you have guts to be bold, Tormund adds to himself.

"You could have taken that weapon today and tried to run, consequences be damned. But you didn't. You stayed and fought, played the fight well. You remind me of one of -"

He stops speaking suddenly, worried he'll reveal too much. But the unspoken words still ring in the air.

One of us.

"Do you… want me to join you?" Jon Snow asks slowly, grey eyes searching his face.

Tormund's eyes fall again on the man’s arms, the crooked rod of the faded tattoo reminding him of the other issue.

Tormund's been unsure if he should talk the crow about this, but given how he proved himself today, the time seems right.

"Say crow, do you dream at night?"

The question takes the man aback. Jon Snow looks at him in confusion before nodding slowly.

"Don't we all?"

"Do you dream about the wild? About skies or forests?"

The crow looks at him in confusion, some realisation dawning on his face.

"I thought so. "Yes, I'm willing to let you join us, Jon Snow. If that's what you want.”

Shock settles on Snow's face. Shock and uncertainty.

“If I do that…If I do that, it means desertion.”

Tormund gets it then. It’s honour that drives the man. Even though The Crows treated him like dirt and left him for death, Snow has a sense of duty.

“They deserted you, left you for dead. Despite all, you did for them, despite how hard you tried. They didn't treat you like a brother or a comrade, but like dirt beneath their feet.”

Something angry starts to spark behind Jon Snow's eyes, and Tormund keeps pushing. 

“Do you honestly think that you owe them the next nineteen years of your life?” 

Grey eyes turn into steel then and Jon Snow shakes his head. Tormund can’t stop a small smirk from making its way on his mouth.

Chapter Text

A sudden clap of thunder wakes him with a gasp. Jon brushes his eyes sleepily and looks around the small room. It's still dark outside and raining hard. Another streak of lightning splits the air, and Jon wonders passingly who or what angered Taranis. He wouldn't be surprised if it was the Romans, for calling him Jupiter and forbidding his people their way of worship.

He's been living with the Picts for weeks now, unsure how long exactly. The people treat him in different ways.There have been a few who have been almost friendly, for lack of a better term. Or at least not outright hostile. Among them is, of course, the chieftain.

Tormund Giantsbane appears to be a fearsome enemy, rightfully respected by the Romans. And yet… he had just offered him a place among his people. Jon still doesn't fully understand it. Tormund’s sister, Ygritte has changed her approach towards him after the incident on the trail. While the woman is brash and rude, she no longer acts openly hostile. She even sat down and helped Jon a few times, correcting his language or explaining his chores.The druid he'd met that first night hasn't spoken to him much since his arrival. But the man isn't unfriendly, not exactly. He had a child bring some healing salve to Jon yesterday after his fight, the substance instantly soothing some of the pain. There have been a few people, mostly women, who had helped Jon carry some heavy items.Once he'd been offered a small, freshly caught fish.. He couldn't help but appreciate the small gestures.

As for the other Picts, many ignore his presence, treating him as their chieftain's slave and therefore not their business. Some curious childrenhad tried to strike a conversation, but often the dialect sounded too foreign for him to understand from a child's lips and he was at loss. Other times their parents would come rushing, scolding them not to talk to the 'slave crow'.

Finally there are those who scowl at him and mutter curses, the word 'crow' being the one he always understands. Some are louder than others, like the man called Orell, trying to antagonize him. And Drust, or as the man styles himself, Lord of Bones. Jon understood that name and had rolled his eyes the first time he heard it. Jon understood that name and had rolled his eyes the first time he heard it. Rattleshirt has been an issue from the very start. He already challenged Giantsbane about Jon's presence before they'd even first reached the Pict's village, not asking but demanding to kill him. At that point Jon barely understood and couldn't see, having been led blindfolded. But the Pict's voice, gruff and unpleasant, made Jon take notice and remember it.

The man has been mocking and trying to pick up a fight with him from the very first day of his stay here. Were Jon not used to bullying and verbal abuse, he would have snapped earlier. But he only did that when the Pict moved to physical assault.

Jon was carrying buckets of water, and as soon as he passed Drust between two houses, Jon braced himself for conflict. He tried to keep his distance, but the man pretended to sway and bumped into him, causing the buckets to spill. Some of the icy cold water landed on Rattleshirt.

Jon groaned internally, years of teasing and bullying had made him quite used to this. Seems like it's a constant in his life.

The man spilled curses vile enough for him to not understand. He had grabbed Jon's tunic and pushed him down to the muddy ground.

Anger swelled inside him and when the man posed himself to kick him, Jon lunged at him, forcing Drust on the ground. Soon enough commotion had started to gather around them, and before long the thunderous voice of Giantsbane halted them to stop.

With wild-red fury coursing through his veins, making him too daring, he'd fully expected to be punished. Badly.

He didn't expect the chieftain to announce him a free man. But Jon had asked the chieftain about his status the day before. Perhaps he had made his mind up during the night.

For an experienced warrior, as Rattleshirt called himself, he'd fallen for Jon's trick head first. He knows he made a true enemy that day.But the chieftain had also announced him equal to the Picts. And then offered to let Jon join them.

Jon sighs and reachesto apply more of the old druid's salve to his bruises. Taranis is still angry outside, but Jon's aware it's still many hours till dawn and he decides to get more sleep after all. He thinks about glacier blue eyes when he falls into sleep.

Rain pours from the night sky, the surroundings dark and grim. Every so often the world erupts with light when lightning strikes. In the coldest part of the day and night, under wrath of the gods, all life seems to have fallen still.

But he can smell something. Something that is amiss. The village is shrouded in darkness and yet he can see it clearly.

A figure.

Hunched and stepping slowly, careful not to make a sound. Maybe its steps would be silent to others, but to him they're not. The man is trying to hide among shadows, but he's clearly visible.

Unlike him.

A silver glint can be seen for a second, mother moon blessing him with her grace. A knife, long and sharp.

He can't help a low growl from building in his throat. But the man doesn't notice, he keeps on sneaking in the direction of the outermost hut, just by the line of the woods-

Jon jerks abruptly.

He doesn't know what woke him this time, but cold sweat is running down his neck. A fleeing sense of dread and the nagging danger-silver-shadow in the back of his head has him on full alert. As careful as he can, Jon gets up from his bedding, and listens.

The house is empty. Or seems to be.

Jon has his own small space in the back of Giantsbane's house, among crates and barrels. It's small, but it's dry and surprisingly warm. More than he would ever ask for.

But the sense of peace is gone. He doesn't understand it, but something is nagging him to move. Telling him that if he doesn't, something bad will happen.

Without a sound, Jon gazes from behind the corner leading to the main room, where his captor sleeps. The place is dark, embers in the fireplace long cold. But there is a darker spot in the middle of the room. For a moment it stills, then there is a faint glint of metal.

Danger-silver-shadow.

With that unsettling thought in his head, Jon throws himself from behind the corner and lunges at the figure with a yell,, slamming it into the ground with a loud thud.

But the attacker reacts instantly. First blinded by the moonlight reflected from the blade, and then by the sharp pain, Jon screams in pain when the blade slices his face, barely missing his left eye.

Then the wannabe assassin is lifted and thrown off him by the giant Pict chieftain.

"What's the meaning of this?!" Tormund barks loudly at the figure.The person gathers themselves from the ground and takes a step back. Silver moonlight brightens his face.

Rattleshirt.

Jon wants to snap, but the still blinding pain makes it only possible for him to grit his teeth.

"Would you like to tell me,” Tormund crosses his arms, looking down at the man on the ground. “What exactly are you doing in my house in the middle of the night, Drust?" the words are low, dangerous.

The man gulps, his grip on the knife weak, the weapon about to drop from his hand.

"The crow was trying to kill you. I tried to stop him," Rattleshirt stutters. Rage swells inside of Jon.

"Oh really? And he screamed loudly and cut his own face with a knife you're holding?" the chieftain’s words are mocking, underlined with venom. "To kill me and blame the crow for it, what a plan!" Tormund yells in rage and takes a step forward. Rattleshirt raises his shaking hand, blade raised in defense. Giantsbane doesn't hold any weapon and yet the man seems terrified. Jon can't explain why, but a shudder runs down his back.

"Maybe you could succeed in killing me in sleep, Rattleshirt, but now its two against one. Drop the knife."

The fact that the chief has just announced a former Roman soldier is on his side does not go unnoticed by Jon.

Drust looks defensive, taking a step back, and chancesa wild look towards a window.

Any plans of running disappear when they hear a commotion and a second later there are loud knocks on the front door.

"Tormund! Are you alright?" comes an urgent voice.

"Oh do come in," the words are dripping with venom, sickly sweet.

Not for the first time, Jon is reminded why the Romans are so scared of this man.

Several men enter. Jon recognises them from passing by them while doing his chores. The Picts take in the scene. Jon's slashed face, warm liquid dripping down his cheek and chin; Drust standing defensively in the middle of the room with a blade dripping in red.

One man, Jon recognises him as the village blacksmith, steps up. “What happened here? Drust? Have you tried to kill the Crow?"

The words are directed towards the man, but it's Giantsbane who answers.

"Oh no, our friend here tried to kill me. Snow was the one who stopped him."

The confusion disappears from the newcomers’ faces, replaced with grimaces as the scene becomes clear.

“Take him and tie him up. We’ll deal with him when Lugh blesses us with light,” Tormund says, the words leaving no space for discussion. “And bring me Suibhne,” he adds.

To Jon’ssurprise, Drust lets himself be taken by the other warriors, looking half the man he was yesterday.

“You’re bleeding,” the gruff voice throws him out of his thoughts and Jon shakes his head, suddenly aware of the pain.

“Here, let me,” the chieftain lights an oil lamp on a table. The man brings up a cloth soaked in clear water and cleans his face. Jon has to force himself not to lean away, unused to being close to others. The cold of the water lessens the pain a bit. Slowly, the color of the fabric changes as it soaks up the blood.

"Never thought I'd ever be thanking a crow for saving my life. But why would you risk your life for me?" the man asks, his voice a tone softer than before.

Jon looks at the man and it occurs to him that he hadn't really thought. He just acted.

"I saw someone about to attack and did what I was trained to do," he finally says.

The exchange is suddenly interrupted when the door opens and the druid enters.

"What happened here? Beathan came rushing in and woke me up. Says you need me," the man says.

"The crow stopped Rattleshirt from taking my life, but was hurt in the process. Please look at his eye," Tormund sighs, exasperated.

Only then does Suibhne notice Jon. He winces at the sight of his face. That bad, eh?

The man comes closer and cleans his face again, before applying some herbal smelling substance under and over his eye.

"You're lucky feannag, the knife barely missed your eye. The wound seems not to be poisoned and seems not dangerous, but it's deep enough to scar," the man muses quietly.

Jon exhales lightly. It's not that bad then.He can take scars. It's not his first, not his last. "Alright," he says.

Then the druid looks back at Jon. “Why were you up?”

Jon stares at him, confused, till the meaning gets to him. “I wasn’t.”

Tormund looks at the old man then. There seems to be some unspoken conversation between the two.

“How did you know Drust was here? Did you hear him?”

Danger-silver-shadow. Jon widens his eyes.

“I’m not sure. It's stupid,” he finally says, shaking his head.

"Try us," Giantsbane's voice is calm. Jon finds it pleasant.

"I'm sure I was asleep. Yet it felt as if I saw someone holding a knife, but from the outside."

"How did you see it?" Suibhne asks. The older man's voice softer than Jon's ever heard it.

"What do you mean?"

"Did you see it as yourself?"

Jon considers it. He remembers stepping slowly and carefully, seeing well despite the darkness. His body seemed lower and he could smell things.

"I...I think I saw it as if I was some kind of an animal. "Everything smelled...more." he muses, more to himself than to the two men.

The loud inhale from Tormund catches his attention again, and Jon looks up at the blue stormy eyes. Finally the man sighs.

“You’ve been doing the chores assigned without complaints,” the chieftains says. “You had many occasions to run, hell you could have in fact killed me in sleep. You never did. Why?”

Jon locks his eyes on Tormund. “I already told you. Nowhere to go. Can’t go back.” He shrugs his shoulders, tired.

“I like you boy. And you saved my life. We were going to observe you longer. Assign you some tasks, find you a proper place to live,” the tall man continues, his voice softer than Jon’s ever heard him. “But I think it’s time you deserve to know.”

“The mark on your arm is an old and rare symbol, used by druids to amplify skinchangers’ powers.”

“Skin changers?” Jon repeats, confused.

“People who can see through animal eyes,” the old druid supplies.

And suddenly Jon understands what they mean.

He’s been having dreams for as long as he could remember. When he was a child, he would tell his father about them, scared, confused, excited. The man would listen and smile at him. As he got older they started to become less frequent, till they stopped. He realises now he’s been having them again, only he’d forget the dream upon waking up. But the feeling is the same as when he was little. Which means-

“Are you saying I really saw him through the eyes of an animal while I slept?”

“From what you say, could have been a dog,” the druid mutters. Jon just stares at the man wide eyed.

“Skin changing is a gift from Cernunnos. A very rare gift, very hard to master. Skilled, trained skin changers can enter the mind of an animal at will. The mark on your arm should help to master it, but yours is unfinished and faded.”

“Skinchangers are rare, some people think them a myth. I met a man once who could enter the mind of his owl,” Tormund adds.

“Dealanach is a rare and sacred symbol. To see it on a crow…” The big man shakes his head. “You said you had it your whole life?”

Jon gulps and nods. “I asked my step-mother once, when I was little. She said ‘must be your whore mother’s doing’,” Despite the years, the words still hurt.

“It could be that your mother was from one of our clans,” Tormund says. “Do you know her name?”

Jon shakes his head. “I don’t know anything about her. My father never told anyone, not even his wife,” he says, his words hurt and bitter.

“The further from the Crows you are, the stronger the gift is. But dealanach is unfinished and faded. It is likely it does more harm than good.”

“What do you plan to do with me then?” Jon asks, the knowledge making him tired.

“For now, sleep. You saved my life, Jon. Long sleep and a proper meal is the least I can offer as thanks.” The redhead smiles at him and something in Jon’s belly somersaults. He nods hurriedly and walks back to his bedding. Once he lays down, Jon tries to decipher his reaction. Could it be that he is attracted to the chieftain?

He can’t deny the man is handsome. Strong cheekbones, fiery hair, bright blue eyes. Sharp humour and… kindness. Kindness coming from one person he’d never expect it from.

Oh he’s definitely attracted. Jon closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

It’s not like being attracted to other men is something wrong or uncommon. But the Romans had managed to ruin that.

For Romans the bottoming man is seen as lesser. It’s derogatory. Neither he nor his people liked nor accepted it.

The very idea makes him grimace..

He reaches to his face and winces at the sharp pain. He’s glad he saved the man. Jon’s not stupid, he realises Tormund’s shown him kindness. He could have turned him into a slave. Instead he had offered Jon a true place among them.

A small smile comes to his lips. Maybe him coming to the Wall was not the worst thing that could have happened after all.

Chapter Text

Despite what the chieftain told Jon, or maybe because of it, he can’t fall back to sleep. So he lays on the bedding, slowly breathing in the chilled air. He listens to the rain falling on the thatched roof of the Giantsbane's house, trying to calm down his mind.

Jon's tired, so very tired. His body aches from fighting. His cheek burns as if on fire but Jon barely notices, deep in thought.

Why has Tormund Giantsbane, a man who inflicts almost supernatural fear into the Romans stationed at the Wall, shown such interest in him? Was it because of this apparently gods-given gift? It seems beyond just finding Jon useful. Even so, could it really be that his dreams are anything more than just that, dreams?

Jon? Gifted by the Gods? He's no one. Ever mocked, teased and bullied. Gotten rid of at the first opportunity. First by his family, then by his 'brothers'. Sworn to protect one another.

He's had dreams for years, dreams he referred to as 'wolf dreams' when he was a little boy because they seemed experienced from within the wolf's mind. But never talked about them with anyone. No, that's not true. Jon tried to talk about it with his father as a child, he remembers. Even with his wife when he was too little to understand her hatred towards him. No one thought it anything other than a dream. So when Giantsbane asked him about it out of nowhere, it really shocked him that the man might have guessed or known something so very personal to him.

Jon rolls on his side and sighs deeply.

But when he thinks of it, the wolf dreams became more frequent once he moved north to the Wall. Even more so once the Picts took him even further from home.

What is home though?

The mansion in Isurium where he was always shunned? The garrison where he was always mocked? For sure not the fort at the Wall where people straight out hated him.

Could it be that his mother was a Pict? If so, why would his father take him from her? How different could his life be, if he stayed with her. But maybe she didn’t want him?

Jon raises his arm and traces the faint blue lines barely visible in the darkness. It does indeed resemble lightning. But him? Gifted by gods? This sounds impossible. All his life he’s known nothing but mockery and bullying.

*

He must have fallen asleep after all, because when Jon opens his eyes, there is sunlight seeping through an open door

He raises himself up slowly, wincing at his protesting ribs. A rich smell fills his nostrils and with a jerk, Jon turns his head and almost gasps at the sight of plates of food next to his bedding.

It’s not like he hasn’t been fed, but this… There is fresh ham, baked chicken, cheese, a loaf of bread and eggs. Next to it all, a jug of ale. He doesn’t remember the last time he was allowed to eat so much, let alone given to him. Perhaps back before he was made a soldier? Perhaps not even then. The meal truly looks like a feast to his eyes.

"Good, you're awake. Eat, you need strength."

The presence of the druid on the other side of the room, quietly picking leaves of some plant, had gone unnoticed. Perhaps he really does need to eat if he's blind to potential threats.

Reading the surprise on his face, the old man continues "Giantsbane asked me to look to your wound. We should also discuss your gifts, faennag."

Jon notices he has fewer problems understanding the old man now, recognising more and more words.

"This can't possibly be all for me," Jon starts, feeling a bit awkward. He speaks slowly, trying to choose the proper words.

"And why not? You saved our chieftain's life. Besides, you're weak. Eat, boy." The old man nods in his direction and starts grinding whatever herbs those were, in a mortar.

"If not for me, Drust wouldn't have done that in the first place," Jon murmurs.

"But he did. You're a crow and while your status wasn't sure, he didn't have a right to antagonize you. Were you the chieftain's slave, he would have punished him for that."

A silence falls, interrupted only by the sound of herbs being ground. Jon eats some of the food slowlym, deciding to leave the rest for later, his stomach not used to big quantities. It only now strikes him that he may be in fact a bit underfed.

Jon takes a mug in his hands, waits till the liquid stills, and looks at his reflection. His hair is longer now and tangled, his beard thicker, making him look less like the scared boy that Romans tried to make of him. A deep cut runs almost vertically over his left eye. The angry line of red cuts into his forehead and cheek. He was only a hair length from losing his eye. It's no longer bleeding, but Jon knows it should be taken care of.

"Now then, come show me your face." Suibhne tells him before approaching him. The druid studies the cut, before sighing. As I thought the blade had some traces of poison on it. It's not deadly but it may worsen the healing process," the man murmurs, before applying the fresh salve. Jon doesn't know what's in it, but it instantly calms the burning in his face.

"Thank you."

The man sighs. "You're a peculiar man. I can see why Tormund likes you. Now, tell me about those dreams you have."

Jon starts at the words a bit. Masking his expression, he thinks about the dreams and slowly starts telling him. He tells the old man about the strangely real dreams he had as a child. How they stopped many years ago, only to resurface again in the past months. How they weren't quite clear enough for him to remember them. Until now.

"I'm fairly certain you're a skinchanger, crow. Even untrained your skill is very strong," Suibhne finally says. "We haven't had a skinchanger in over thirty years here, so a lot of younglings consider it only a myth." The man shakes his head.

"So you say it is possible to have dreams like this on command?"

"Skinchangers can enter the mind of an animal and take control of it at will."

Jon’s eyes widen at that.

"As you can guess, skinchangers are highly sought, their abilities are valuable to tribes."

"Is this why Giantsbane wants me to join you?" Jon asks, feeling his stomach squirm.

"You'd have to ask him that yourself, crow."

Jon nods.

"Have you ever had a dream of visiting the mind of a human?"

He considers it. He's had dreams of being someone else, everyone has, but he's never had any that felt quite like that. Jon shakes his head.

"Good," the old man sends him what Jon could call a shadow of a smile. "To enter another person's brain and control them, is vile," the man explains. "Could you fly? Swim underwater?”Jon shakes his head. "No, I'm quite sure I've only ever dreamt of being a wolf."

The druid nods at him. "To visit the mind of an animal requires a lot of focus. Many of the skinchangers would bond with one animal, or more."

"Bond?"

Suibhne looks at him before continuing "Skinchangers are known for having animal followers, usually one, some have more."

"So what you're saying is that I see through the eyes of some nearby wolf when I sleep? But also that I could do it while awake and take control of it."

"Yes." Simple.

Jon stares, unbelieving.

"But how could it even work, how do I learn how to do it?"

"We could start with renewing your mark, but for that a ritual is needed and it's not an easy one."

Jon's shoulders slump a bit. He knows that magic exists, their gods exist, but to be a part of this is something he's never envisioned.

"So you're saying i should find a wolf and somehow make it not tear me to pieces."

The old man sends him an ugly smile.

"If it wasn't possible, people wouldn't have done it, crow. You said that the dreams intensified when you moved north with Romans. They've been tainting our lands, the very soil of it."

For the first time, Jon hears anger in the man's words.

"If your mother was from our lands, it could be that your heart seeks it, calls for it."

"Is there any way I could find out if that's true?"

The man's expression softens, looking more emphatic now. "I doubt it, boy. A lot of young warriors from many parts of our land grew up as orphans, their parents killed in crow attacks."

Jon's shoulders slump at that. He made peace with the fact he'd never meet his mother a long time ago. He knew she couldn't have been Roman, Jon's too pale, features too different, but he never thought she could be from Caledonia either.

"You should rest, crow, eat more."

"I should ask the chief what I'm to do today." Jon starts, but Suibhne stops him.

"Boy. I don't think you realise your role in what happened here. You saved our chieftain while risking your life. It's not a deed to be taken without gratitude. But you will be needed later, when the trial takes place. Now rest."

The words reach him, but Jon finds it difficult to understand them, he's never really been shown gratitude for anything. So instead he focuses on druid's last words.

"What's going to happen to him?" Jon finally asks.

Suibhne scowls.

"Unlike whatever spat you two had, this was a murder attempt. And one of a chieftain. While Tormund is the chief he still consults the elders, which includes me. As much as he hates Crows, and rarely shows them mercy," the man looks at him intently then, "he tries to be a fair leader to our people. There are clans where chieftains execute their people for as much as a bad look towards them. He gained our clan's respect through hard work, not fear. But one can't make everyone love them. Rattleshirt had been opposing the previous chieftain as well as him for years. He even tried to challenge Tormund in a fight, but got laughed at for that. He's been even more bitter ever since."

Jon thinks about that. Indeed the Picts seem to be at ease around their chieftain, while at the same time acting respectful enough. He's never seen people act this way towards their leader. Roman commanders and centurions lead through fear, punishment, and humiliation.

Fair but fearful. A rare pair.

'If you insist on not staying in bed, nothing stops you from getting up." The old druid finally says. "You're in no danger and I have other things to work on than babysitting a crow." The man put the ground salve on a table before getting up. "We don't need you till the trial at sunset. Rest, or move. Your choice.”

Jon watches the man go and finds himself a bit lost. He's not used to resting. He's not used to being idle. Left alone, he decides to get up and get some fresh air. His sides protest when he gets up and puts on some clean clothes, not for the first time noticing he wasn't given scraps. Tentatively, Jon opens the door and walks out.

The village is full of life, the only evidence of the storm being puddles and broken branches. Many trees lost the last of their leaves as well. The day is sunny but cold. It's long past Samhain, there should be snow very soon. Perhaps the first snowfall has already happened this far north.

A lot of the villagers are busy with thickening roofs and walls of their houses for the coming winter. Unlike the Roman houses, Pict's ones are partially in the ground, usually without windows. Cool in summer, warm in winter.

He observes the people, noting for the first time just how many of them have their faces painted, some even inked. The only ones that don't seem to wear it are children and youth. As he watches, he notices some patterns reoccurring. Could be something with the family or maybe roles in the community. He sees warriors wear thicker, stronger lines on their faces than gatherers, Jon mostly worked with so far; Giantsbane and Suibhne wear some he's not seen on others, so this could be true.

Painting faces isn't uncommon to Jon, he saw people like that south. But mostly at night, deep in the forest. Romans mock them for that. But here? People wear it every day.

As he walks, he notices some people nodding at him. While there is still no trust, there is less animosity in their eyes. Jon agreed to stay with Tormund's clan, but he mostly had the chieftain in his mind when he agreed. He didn't really think about the others that much. He's been taught for months that these people are his enemies. In the end, they took him in when he got betrayed by those who questioned his loyalty the most.

He's unsure for how long he's been here, a moon for sure. He's never truly had a chance to explore the village. Partially because of not being sure of his status. The Picts kept looking down on him; some ignoring him in a menacing way, others downright scowling. Others… the dull pain in his cheek is proof of those others' intentions.

Jon sighs and notices he's in front of the settlement's wall. He looks at it, made of strong wood, several man heights tall. The irony of it makes him chuckle as he makes his way up to the battlements. He realises it's the first time he gets to see the surroundings of the village.

As he thought, the village is in a valley, by a small river, and surrounded by thick forests. It must be quite far north as he knows that the Romans don't send patrols into the hills, definitely not into the woods. As far as Jon knows, they don't venture this far unless in a bigger formation.

*

Jon didn't know for how long he'd been standing on the battlements, but when he hears loud steps, throwing him out of his thoughts, he notices the sun is low over the horizon. He's only half surprised to see Ygritte, Tormund's sister, approaching him. Jon stills, but relaxes when he notices no animosity in the warrior's posture.

"Thank you for what you've done." the woman starts. They’d made peace, and the warrior has been one of the few who interact with him, going as far as teasing him.

"I didn't really think about what was doing. I'm glad I did it though."

The redhead woman smiles faintly, before turning more serious. "The trial starts soon, Tormund asked me to bring you there."

Having not much to say in the matter, Jon climbs down and follows her back to the center of the village.

There are eyes on them, many centering on him, and Jon has to force down a shiver. Jon straightens himself as he follows the ginger woman. It seems that his display yesterday gained him some kind of acceptance, saving their chieftain’s life only cementing it. Could the people here really accept him?

In the center, where yesterday his fight took place, Tormund stands, his face grim. He's surrounded by Suibhne and a few elderly Picts Jon hasn't seen before. They must be the elders the druid mentioned.

Noticing Jon, Tormund nods at him before motioning at two men. Jon recognises them as those who stormed inside at night. The two leave, but only minutes later they're back, dragging a tied up Rattleshirt.

The man is held tightly as the Picts lead him, his right eye dark and swollen from the punch Tormund gave him. His sole visible eye is trained on him and the amount of hatred Jon sees in it almost makes him take a step back.

"Is this how you thank me for stopping a murderer, Giantsbane?" The man starts, trying to sound offended. Instantly Jon feels anger boiling in him. A murmur goes through the crowd. Rattleshirt's accent is more difficult than Tormund's, but Jon understood that much.

The ginger chieftain only laughs, his voice rolling loudly among the villagers. It's not a happy laugh, and Jon has to force down another shiver. He scans the crowd, noting that very few people have expressions other than an angry scowl. And not one directed at Jon

"Oh quit it, Drust. You got caught hot handedly during a pitiful attempt to frame a former crow. And one you lost a fight to." To Jon' surprise it's Ygritte who speaks up. The woman has her arms crossed, standing on the side of the circle, her green eyes full of hatred towards the bound Pict. "What reason would he have to kill my brother? Tormund vouched for him yesterday didn’t he?"

"He's a crow!" the bound man yells at her.

"A crow we found naked, beaten and bleeding, and took with us because we thought he was their captive." Tormund says, still calm. "He turned out to be a southern kin, forced into the crow army unwillingly."

Jon starts a bit. Giantsbane's words are true but still to hear the man say it…

Rattleshirt looks wildly among the gathered people, but it seems that no one is willing to disagree with Tormund. Even the men who usually gather around the bound man are avoiding his eyes now.

"Don't be stupid, Rattleshirt. You tried to kill your chieftain, and if not for Snow here, I'd be dead. You tried to blind him, too." Giantsbane continues and points at Jon's face. A murmur goes through the crowd as people take in the deep cut slicing his cheek and forehead. Jon breaths in softly, not used to receiving this much attention.

"Let’s get it over with, we have more important things to do today. Any last words?"

The man pales as the two warriors holding him grip him harder and lower his head.

"What, you thought I'd banish you? You tried to kill your chief. The punishment for that is death. There were witnesses as well, and there is not much for you to say that could possibly redeem you." Giantsbane continues slowly, in a tone just on the edge of sarcasm. "But let it be. Is there anyone who wants to vouch for this man's innocence?" Tormund's rumbly voice falls over the crowd.

Rattleshirt takes one last wild look around, but there is no one who'd vouch for him. Jon can't help but feel some pity for him. But it disappears when the man looks at him and hisses, "Gods curse you."

"Don't speak of Gods, they're not with you today." The soft-spoken druid speaks quietly but fiercely, his voice reaching everyone.

"Your belongings will be given to Uradech and Talorc, your only living kin.” Jon watches two grim looking men nod. Doesn't seem they miss their cousin.

Giantsbane unsheathes his sword slowly, the sharp edge glimmering in the sun. "You've been defying me for years, Drust. I let every one of those slip, putting that on sore bitterness. But this time you pushed it too far."

Jon watches silently as the chieftain raises his sword, before bringing it down in a clean cut through the neck.

There is no cheer, no shouting to which Jon got used to during Roman executions. This wasn't a show of power, it was delivering justice. People murmur among each other, begging to disperse. Many glances and nods are sent his way.

Jon can feel a small but significant change in the Picts' attitude.

If a scar is what he has to pay for being accepted by these people, it's a small price.

He's about to move too, when a loud "That's not all, stay." washes over the crowd. Everyone, including Jon, looks at the chieftain, having cleaned and sheathed his sword.

"We lost a man today, but we also gained one. I said it yesterday, but it seemed not to get through everyone's head." The man huffs, before continuing. "This man here is no longer a crow. Come here, Snow." Tormund gestures at him.

Jon stares at the redhead but tentatively comes closer. Gianstabe grabs his forearm and looks him in the eyes. "You're not a crow. You're Jon Eyescar and I name you one of us." He finishes, and Jon notices a glint of something cold clasping around his wrist. "And this is a token of my trust," the man finishes, a small smile raising the corner of his mouth.

Jon just stares in disbelief, absolutely speechless. The cheer of people approving of their chief's decision barely getting to him. There is a thick silver bracelet around his wrist, obviously one of Giantsbane's own.

"Suibhne!" The man calls and the old druid comes before Jon, a small bowl of the same thing Jon saw him grind in the morning in his hand. He stares, a bit confused, as the man puts his fingers in the contents of the bowl. They come out dark blue. Jon almost gasps when he suddenly understands what's going on.

Jon closes his eyes as wet fingers touch his face, drawing lines of blue paint on his forehead and cheeks.

"You're obviously a warrior, a loyal one to that, it's only fitting if you wear Warrior Marks," the man declares, done with his work.

This time the cheer is much louder, and Jon looks wildly at the smiles surrounding him.

The biggest on Tormund's own face.

Jon is in shock, this much is obvious to him as he struggles to react in any way. A small "thank you" finally escapes his lips and he smiles watching the chieftain call for the celebration.

As people disperse, going home to prepare for what seems to be a small feast. Jon is still in a state of shock when the chieftain, his chieftain, approaches him. Jon stares, mouth dry, as the man puts his big hands on his shoulders.

"You're one of us now, little crow." The man says, grinning.

'Thought I wasn't a crow anymore?" is all Jon manages.

"Oh you're not a crow, but you're a little crow." The man chuckles, before letting go off him. "Come, gods only know when we'll have a reason to celebrate again."

Jon comes along slowly, looking down at his wrist. Maybe he didn't understand the man completely, or a little crow means something else in his dialect. But for some reason, the words made him smile.

Looks like he found a place for himself.