Were he traveling alone, John would have simply consulted his compass and charted the most direct path south. Yrga, however, was far more cautious and meticulous.
She knew the land intimately—the villages and clan territories, which ones would be indifferent to their passing and which would consider it trespassing and attack. She knew where the river ran treacherously fast beneath its lazy surface, where a ravenous bog lay hidden under the snow, separated only by a fragile crust of ice. She could read days of good weather in the crispness of the air or predict a coming storm by the shift in the wind.
Once, they were caught by a sudden blizzard while crossing a stretch of tundra with no cover, and she showed him how to dig burrows into the snow and bury themselves until the storm passed, huddled together for warmth.
John could have made the journey alone, of that he had no doubt—he was well-provisioned enough to deal with injuries, and his skills ensured he would find his way eventually—but Yrga's presence eased the way in more ways than one.
She taught him the lay of the land, and he, in turn, taught her how to forage, though in truth, her eyes often failed to see what he did.
"There were no berries in that bush—you grabbed them from your inventory!" she would accuse, and he would deny it with a smirk, and they would fail to come to an agreement. Still, she never turned up her nose at what he found, nor did she stop trying to learn, for all the good it did her.
And as they walked, keeping their eyes peeled for sudden movement and their ears pricked for sounds, they talked.
John told her of his world, of the spacious, homey cottage he had built in the woods, with its many rooms, a second floor, and a root cellar. He described the glass windows, the lovingly made furniture of wood and leather and wool, the well-stocked kitchen and crafting stations, and the little garden where he grew wheat, cabbage, and corn for his chickens. He spoke of the forest around him, its bounty sustaining him through the seasons.
"It sounds like a dream," Yrga murmured, sighing wistfully. "I can scarcely believe such a place exists."
Knowing how she and her family lived, he understood why.
In turn, she told him of her childhood in the village—learning the spear and the hunt, helping her mother with her work. She had two more siblings once, a boy and a girl, but neither lived past their first year. Of her father, she did not speak, and John did not press.
In the evenings, they made camp, and John cooked, handing Yrga her share and storing the rest in his inventory for safekeeping. After eating, they sparred with their spears, the steady rise of his combat level proof of their efforts. When she bedded down to sleep, he kept watch, panning the river for materials if they camped near one, or crafting by the fire if they didn't.
Thus passed two and a half weeks in relative peace. It was too naive to hope it would last.
—-
They were set upon by five men a little after they passed into what Yrga called the Haunted Forest, ambushed from behind a low crop of rocks. John had his bow out and dropped two before Yrga could do more than get her spear up, but then they were too close for his bow to be effective.
They reminded him of the men he had first encountered upon arriving in this world—dirty and bedraggled, clad in rough furs, wielding crude weapons. Two of them lunged at him, one with a rusty iron sword and the other with a surprisingly well-made steel knife, while the third, armed with a spear, went for Yrga.
Trusting her to handle herself, John recalled that first fight, the shock on the bandit's face as time stopped. He let his attackers get closer than was wise, saw the cruel grins they wore as they anticipated an easy kill. Then, with a swift flick through his inventory, his bow disappeared and a spear took its place. That moment of involuntary hesitation—the way their eyes widened in shock and confusion—was all he needed.
He drove his spear through the stomach of the first man, the one with the knife, before quickly switching again to his own steel blade. As the second attacker faltered, John slashed his throat. The first man was still screaming, clutching at his stomach, when John turned and slit his throat too.
Yrga had not been idle. She had learned well to recognize the way the world froze when John used his inventory and took full advantage of it. When her opponent faltered, confused by the stuttering shift of reality, she struck—first stabbing his shoulder to make him drop his weapon, then driving her spear clean through his exposed throat.
All in all, the fight barely lasted a few minutes, and when it was over, a quiet ping in John's mind informed him that his spear combat had reached level four.
"Are you injured?" he asked, scanning Yrga for wounds. She shook her head, breathless but unscathed.
"No. When one knows your little freezing-time trick, it can be mighty useful in a fight."
"Glad to be of service," he said dryly, watching her crouch down to rifle through the pockets of the man she had killed. With a shrug, he turned to do the same.
The first man carried little of value—some meager rations, a waterskin. His sword was rusted, near useless, but John offered it to Yrga anyway. After a brief consideration, she took it.
The second man was more interesting. His knife was well-made—better quality than most Free Folk weapons—with a wooden tang wrapped in black leather and a steel pommel. John turned it in his hand, examining the craftsmanship. "Huh," he said, catching Yrga's attention. "This knife looks a grade above what Freefolk usually carry."
She abandoned her search and came over to inspect it, her expression darkening. "That's a crow's knife," she said, her voice tinged with tension. "Good steel, and black leather."
"Night's Watch?"
"Yeah. The crows send patrols into the north once in a while. Sometimes they kill us, sometimes we kill them."
John frowned, glancing at the bodies. "Do you think it was recent?"
She shrugged, unbothered. "Who knows? Whoever it was, he's dead now and beyond us."
"We should check. Follow their trail."
"Why? It could've happened a long time ago. And we still have a long way yet. No sense wasting time on a crow."
"I'd feel better knowing," he insisted. "And besides, look—" he gestured at the footprints in the snow. "Their tracks lead in the direction we're already going."
She rolled her eyes but didn't argue further. They followed the trail for a few hours, until at last, they came upon a body.
Face down in the snow, a man lay stripped to mostly his smallclothes. His brown hair was matted with frozen blood, and multiple stab wounds marked his back and sides. It was clear he had been left for dead.
John crouched beside the body, frowning. The wounds were deep, deliberate, not the wild slashes of a panicked fight but the work of men who knew exactly what they were doing.
"We should bury him," he said.
Yrga shook her head. "Burn him."
For all her disdain for the Night's Watch, she didn't begrudge him this. Together, they collected wood from a tree John cut down and stacked it into a pyre on a bit of clear ground. They heaved the body onto the wood, and John set it alight. Both stood in silence as the fire caught and began consuming the remains.
Deed done, Yrga was eager to move on, but as they turned to leave, John caught sight of something odd.
"Here." He pointed to a set of drag marks in the snow a few feet away, near the shade of a bush. The smears of blood were still stark against the white, and as he crouched closer, it became clear—someone had dragged themselves away from the scene.
Yrga let out an irritated sigh. "Jon, whoever that was, he's long dead."
"You don't know that."
"He was obviously injured, if he was dragging himself like that. You saw the other body."
He gave her a sidelong look. "Would you have preferred I left you alone? I tracked you like this, you know."
She scoffed. "I wasn't that badly off. I would've made it, your help or no."
He shot her a skeptical glance but said nothing, opting instead to follow the trail. Yrga muttered under her breath but followed in his wake.
It took only ten minutes before they found him.
Curled up beneath a bush, dressed in torn and bloodstained black wool trousers and a wool shirt but barefoot, was another man.
John crouched beside him, assessing the damage. His brows rose slightly in surprise. Wounded and bloodied and with signs of frostbite, but against all odds, this one was still barely clinging to life.
—--
Gillam had stopped shivering some hours ago. He didn't feel the biting cold anymore, nor the sting of his wounds; instead, everything was warm and hazy. That alone told him he was a dead man.
The group that jumped him and Chett had come out of nowhere. He'd been ranging beyond the Wall for three years now, and Chett for five, but the land beyond was ever treacherous, and the wildlings doubly so. They had fought back—he knew they had taken some of them down—but it hadn't been enough. There were too many, and Chett had gone down first, beset by four attackers, his sword knocked from his grip before he could so much as curse. Gillam had followed shortly after, catching a blow to the side that sent him reeling. He remembered the pain as his skull met stone, and then nothing.
When he woke, his body was screaming at him, every breath a fresh agony. His head throbbed, his side burned, and when he tried to move his limbs, pain lanced through them like fire. Worse still, his gear was gone. His armor, his sword, his belt knife, even his fur-lined boots—stripped from him like he was nothing more than a carcass left for scavengers.
Chett's body lay a few feet away, similarly picked clean. The man had been gruff, mean-spirited even, but he hadn't deserved that.
Gillam gritted his teeth and forced himself to move. He couldn't stay here. Biting back a groan, he dragged himself toward the nearest line of trees, each breath coming sharper, each shift of his limbs an agony. He left a dark trail in the snow—blood, his own, smeared behind him like a path for any beast or man who cared to follow. He had no choice.
In the end, he barely made it halfway beneath a bush before the darkness took him again.
It was the voices that woke him.
"—I'll not leave him to die when he's done me no harm and might yet prove to be my friend," a man's voice said, the accent strange but refined.
"He's a crow," a woman replied, her voice thick with the rough cadence of a wildling.
"Yrga." The man's tone brooked no argument. Then, before Gillam could make sense of what was happening, hands found him, firm yet careful, pulling him from beneath the bush. A heavy warmth enveloped him—fur, thick and plush.
"He'll get blood on your cloak," the woman, Yrga, muttered.
"My cloak will survive," the man said dryly.
There were soft noises—the thunk of wood, the creak of leather. Then, even through his closed eyelids, Gillam saw a flicker of light and felt the seeping warmth of fire, smelled the scent of burning wood.
He forced his eyes open. The world swam before him—the blurred outline of trees, the sky shifting toward late afternoon. His gaze drifted lower, toward the fire crackling before him, and the two figures beside it.
The woman was young, with the wild, unkempt look of a wildling. She eyed him with suspicion and derision, though not quite hate. The man was stranger still. His fur coat was too fine for a wildling, with a stranger strap of leather bags across his body. When he looked up from mixing the little clay bowl in his hands, Gillam saw at once that he was no wildling at all. Westerlander, by the look of him.
"You're awake," the man said. He set aside the bowl and moved closer, hands reaching toward Gillam.
Gillam flinched back. His entire body screamed in protest at the motion, but instinct overrode pain. The man halted, hands hovering in the air between them. His expression was calm, even kind.
"It's a poultice, for your wounds," he explained.
Gillam swallowed thickly. His lips were cracked, his throat parched, but he managed a nod. If the man had meant him harm, all he had to do was leave him under that bush to freeze.
The man moved again, slow and deliberate, as if tending to a skittish animal. He dabbed the poultice onto Gillam's wounds, binding them with moss and strips of fabric torn from what looked like an old tunic. The process was slow, agonizing, but Gillam endured.
When it was done, the man returned to the fire and pulled out a small clay teapot. He packed it with snow, added bark and herbs, then set it to warm over the flames. Soon, he was back at Gillam's side, pressing a steaming clay cup into his hands. The smell was sharp, medicinal.
"What is this?"
"Willowbark, dwarf birch, yarrow, and snow lotus," the man listed, as if that explained anything. "It will help with fever and infection."
Gillam took a tentative sip, more for the warmth than anything else. It was bitter, but not the worst thing he'd tasted.
The man, meanwhile, had moved on to inspecting his frostbitten fingers and toes. Now that sensation was creeping back into them, Gillam felt every last stab of pain. He gritted his teeth.
"Some of this is fairly far along," the man said with a frown. "I'll do my best, but I can't promise to save all of them."
Gillam exhaled. "If I come out of this with only a few toes lost, I'll count myself lucky."
The man nodded and set to work, wrapping his fingers and feet in wet, warmed cloth. The moment the heat touched his skin, agony shot through him. He hissed through clenched teeth.
"It burns!"
"Good," the man said. "That means it's working. Keep it there."
Gillam cursed him under his breath but didn't move.
The man, unfazed, pulled a large pot from… somewhere. One moment his hands were empty, the next he was setting it over the fire, filling it with meat, tubers, and herbs. Soon, the rich scent of stew filled the air.
Gillam stared. What the—?
The man stirred the pot, then, as if by magic, a bowl appeared in his hands, steaming and fragrant. He made to hand it to Gillam, and Gillam recoiled.
"Get away from me!"
The man sighed, his expression one of long-suffering resignation. "Oh, not this again."
The girl sniggered. "All this time, and you still haven't learned, Jon." Then she sneered at Gillam. "It's magic. He won't hurt you. He wants to help you—gods know why. Take it or don't. I won't cry if a crow dies."
"Whatever," Jon muttered, as if this were an old argument he had long since given up winning. He set the bowl down beside the fire, within Gillam's reach, then filled another bowl and handed it to the girl, who dug in with relish.
Gillam hesitated. The stew smelled incredible, richer than anything he'd had at Castle Black. He eyed the two strangers again. Jon wasn't eating, but the girl was already on her second one.
Slowly, Gillam picked up the bowl. He took a cautious bite. Then another, larger one. The warmth of it settled in his stomach, spreading through his limbs like fire.
By the time he reached the bottom of the bowl, his eyelids had grown heavy. Jon plucked the empty dish from his hands.
"Go to sleep," he said. "You'll be safe."
Gillam believed him. And so he slept.
—--
John sighed as he settled by the fire, glancing across to where Yrga lay with her back to him. She had gone to bed angry, making it clear she thought they had wasted enough time. She wanted to move on, to leave the Night's Watch patrolman now that John had treated him.
He understood her wariness. The old hatred between the Freefolk and the Watch ran deep, but he couldn't, in good conscience, abandon the man to die. When he'd said as much, Yrga had scoffed. He had offered her the choice to turn back if she was too worried about her family, saying he could continue south on his own if she wished. That had earned him only silence and a sharp turn of her back as she settled down.
Sighing again, he turned to check on the wounded man and reapply the poultice. His condition was improving—the smaller wounds had scabbed over, while the deeper gashes remained red and angry but no longer bled freely. No signs of sepsis, at least not yet. Even the man's frostbitten fingers and toes looked better, though there was one toe on his right foot John was still worried about.
Truly, his new healing skill was proving its worth.
With his patient seen to, he settled in, listening to the quiet sounds of the night—the crackling fire, the distant hoot of an owl. The sky stretched vast above him, unfamiliar stars burning bright in the cold air. They were beautiful in their way, even if they offered no familiar comfort.
He pulled some furs and hides from his inventory, setting aside enough to make the man a new pair of boots and gloves and a coat. Not the best pelts—he'll be saving those for trade—but the man needed them more than he did. And John would quite like his shadowcat cloak back.
He'd see about making arrangements for travel in the morning.
—-
Breakfast was last night's stew. Yrga ate in petulant silence, alternating her glares between Jon—who was building another sled, bringing back memories—and the crow, who was still asleep in Jon's precious cloak and had, unfortunately, not died in the night.
When Jon finished, he returned to the fire, offering her a small smile that she met with stony silence. He sighed and turned to the crow, shaking him awake gently. The man startled, groaning as the movement jostled his wounds. Still, he looked better—less pale than the day before, his eyes clearer and their feverish glaze gone.
Jon checked and redressed his bandages, then handed him clothes. To Yrga's mild surprise, he had left them out by the fire rather than pulling them straight from his inventory. So, he could learn. The crow took the bundle hesitantly, obviously wondering where it had come from, but he dressed without complaint.
When he handed Jon's cloak back, he froze, his jaw dropping. "That's a shadowcat pelt," he said, awed.
"Jon killed it," Yrga couldn't help but boast. Jon shot her an amused look but said nothing. Instead, he handed the crow a bowl of stew and another cup of that herbal-smelling brew he'd made the night before.
"We'll take you back to the Wall," he said, gesturing toward the sled. The crow did a double-take. "You'll have to tell us where to go, though."
"Eastwatch-by-the-Sea," the crow muttered, still staring. "We came from Castle Black, but Eastwatch is closer now." He looked at Jon, then at Yrga, his expression surprised and—worse—grateful.
She turned away. What was he looking at her for?
"Yes," Jon said, "it'll add a few days to our journey, but I'll feel better about it."
The crow frowned. "Where are you going?"
For a moment, Yrga thought Jon might be foolish enough to answer honestly, but he only smiled. "Oh, here and there. You know how it is."
The crow wasn't satisfied. "But aren't you a Westerlander? What are you doing beyond the Wall?"
Jon didn't blink. "I'm not quite sure what you mean."
The crow gaped at him. "You know, the Seven Kingdoms?"
"What are those?"
Yrga smirked at the look on the man's face, but his surprise worked in their favor. Soon, taken in by Jon's kindness and friendly demeanor, he was talking freely, offering information about the south—its customs, its people, and most importantly, what Jon might find beyond the Wall. Blissfully unaware of Jon's careful, leading questions, he spoke and spoke, filling in gaps Jon would need when he crossed over.
Good. Jon was capable, but the south was a different beast, and if he went in unprepared, he would stick out worse than he already did in the north.
The journey to the Wall took ten days. Each day, Jon extracted more information from the crow while giving up almost nothing in return. Yrga refused to speak to the man, and after a few failed attempts, he stopped trying to speak to her.
At night, Jon would make their meals and tend to the crow—Gillam, as he introduced himself on the second day. Afterward, Jon and Yrga would practice their spears or sit by the fire while Jon carved beautiful things with his knife. The crow clearly wanted to ask about it but, after one too many of Yrga's glares, held his tongue.
He was recovering surprisingly fast, considering how close to death he had been. She could see he wanted to ask about that, too—giving Jon long, searching looks whenever he mixed his poultice or changed his bandages—but he kept silent. Perhaps he feared he wouldn't like the answer.
At last, they broke free of the trees. The Wall loomed in the distance, its towering height dwarfing everything around it. In the distance, they could just make out the gray buildings of the Night's Watch's castle.
"Huh," Jon murmured, obviously impressed. "Yes, I see what you meant about climbing it."
"Climbing the Wall?" Gillam asked from the sled, startled.
Jon gave him a reassuring smile. "Don't worry about it. We won't come too close, I'm sure you understand. But we'll get you near enough that you won't be in danger walking the rest of the way. Will you manage?"
"Aye," the crow said, still blinking at them. "I'm much better now, thanks to you."
"Excellent." Jon started pulling the sled again. The Wall grew larger with every step, until at last, a horn blew twice.
"Two for wildlings," Gillam muttered, shifting to climb out of the sled. He turned to them both, though his gaze settled on Jon. "I can't thank you enough," he said. "You saved my life, whatever it's worth."
Jon only shrugged. "It was the right thing to do. Take care, Gillam."
For a moment, the crow hesitated, as though he wanted to ask Jon all the questions he had held back. But at last, he simply nodded, clasped Jon's shoulder in farewell, and turned toward the castle.
"Good riddance," Yrga muttered, watching him limp away. She could see activity on the Wall. Was it too much to hope they'd mistake him for a wildling and shoot him?
Jon rolled his eyes at her, abandoning the sled as they turned away. "It pays to be nice, Yrga. You never know what will come of it. Unless, of course, someone tries to kill you. Then you kill them first."
She had no answer to that. It was simply a difference too big to reconcile between their two worlds.
Their journey to Eastwatch had taken them close to their destination. By evening, they stood on the windswept shore of the Bay of Seals, gray waves rolling endlessly before them. Jon was already busy constructing a rowboat.
Her heart twisted. "Must you go?" she asked, hating how young and pathetic she sounded.
He looked up, smiling at her sadly. "You know I do. You've been a true friend to me, Yrga, but I want to go home. And if going south offers me even the slightest hope of that, then that's where I must go."
He stood and pulled her into his arms. She clung to him, burying her face in the thick fur of his coat. He didn't rush her, letting her hold on as long as she needed. Only when she was ready did she finally step back.
"Take care of yourself," she said, wiping her eyes furiously.
"You too, Yrga." He pressed something into her hands—a knife, the good steel one they had taken from the men who had attacked them, its black leather replaced with red-brown deer hide. Along with it, a pack of dried meat, enough to last the journey home if she was prudent. "Be safe. Be careful. Are you sure you'll be alright? It's a long journey to make alone."
"I'll be fine," she assured him. "You should go. The crows have patrol ships; you'll want to reach land before morning."
"Okay." He hugged her one last time, brief but tight. "Goodbye, Yrga. Thanks for being my first friend in this world."
A little sob escaped her. "Farewell, Jon."
She watched him get into the little boat and start rowing himself out to sea, his form growing smaller and dimmer as the sun fully set down.
And then she shook herself up, turned her back on the water, and started to make the long way back home.
********
Author's notes
And that ends John's arc beyond the wall, at least for now. Next chapter will already be in the Gift and Umber lands.
Regarding this chapter: Distances in ASOIAF are kind of sketchy, so I'm guesstimating. I've decided Yrga's village is in an area a little north-east of the Fist of First Man. The wall is 300 miles long, so according to this map I've estimated Yrga and John's journey to where he's going to try and cross the Bay of Seals is around 400 miles. A person in good shape who's used to it can walk 20 miles a day no problem (up to 30 if they take no breaks, but that's less sustainable).
That's 400/20=20 days of journey (one direction). Yrga is in good shape and John doesn't need rest, but the terrain can be harsh, so let's assume 25 days.
This week is going to be pretty busy for me, so I probably won't be able to update more than twice. Look for the next update on Tuesday or Wednesday. Just a heads up.
Thanks again for reading and commenting, everyone! I really appreciate it.
John held himself silent and motionless as the lights from the patrol ship slowly glided by. He'd been rowing for hours at this point, wanting to put a good distance between himself and Eastwatch before making landfall in case the Watch patrolled the coast. The moon was a thin sliver in the sky as he let the waves carry him forward; unless they shone a light directly on him, they wouldn't be able to see him.
And pass him they did, moving onward to catch some other unlucky bugger while John picked up his oars and resumed rowing.
An hour or two later, the sky began to lighten, and he could just barely make out land to his right. A boat left on the beach would be suspicious, he told himself. If anyone found it, they'd search for whoever had come ashore. Better to leave no trace.
Decision made, he slipped into the cold water without hesitation and began swimming. The waves tossed him, the current pulling at his limbs, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. He pushed forward, steady and unbothered by the chill, hoping nothing in the depths saw him as prey.
As he reached the shore he took a quick look around. The land here wasn't much different from where he'd set off—cold, rocky, and windswept. A few strands of kelp clung to the pebbles, which he gathered out of habit. Waste not, want not. There wasn't much else of use, not even sand for glass.
Dusting his hands off, he turned inland, heading southwest. Gillam had told him that the land pressed against the Wall was called the Gift—fertile, but abandoned due to frequent Freefolk raids. Having just easily crossed the water himself, John could understand why. And if a handful of Freefolk fighters had been trouble for him, farmers with no combat experience or inventory boosts wouldn't stand a chance.
He considered his next move. He could head west along the Wall until he reached Mole's Town, where he might do a bit of trading and then follow the Kingsroad to Winterfell, the seat of the rulers of the North, as this kingdom was called. There would be villages and inns along the way—opportunities for trade and information.
But Mole's Town was a Night's Watch haunt, a place of drinking and whores. He doubted his trinkets would sell well there, and soldiers tended to be suspicious by nature. He had no doubt he would stand out, at least until he learned more about the customs of this land. The Freefolk were one thing; the so-called civilized world might be another entirely.
An alternative was to cross the Gift and head for Last Hearth, the seat of the Umbers. Nobles had coin, and if they weren't interested, there was bound to be a town around their castle where he might find merchants and traders.
From there, he could gather information and plan his next steps with more certainty.
Mind made up, he set out across the snowy, rolling plains of the Gift.
—---
The land here really was fertile, at least compared to what he'd seen beyond the wall. Even in winter, the landscape carried signs of life. Rich soil, wild-growing food, and the scattered remnants of abandoned pastures spoke of a time when people had settled the Gift, only to be driven out.
Crumbling stone walls and broken wooden fences dotted the land, and John found himself walking through overgrown fields where grain had once been sown. The foraging here was abundant, better than he had seen since his arrival in this world; his inventory threatened to overfill despite the extra bags he had fashioned to hang from his bandolier.
He found dandelion, nettle, and wood sorrel, mugwort too; rowan berries, blackberries, and crabapples. Further on, he unearthed turnips, wild carrots, and even potatoes—likely remnants of past agriculture, left to spread on their own. Skirret root, sweet to the taste, added itself to his growing stock.
Then he came upon the orchard.
The trees were spaced in neat rows, their trunks gnarled with age. Windfall apples lay scattered on the ground, half-eaten by birds and insects, but many still clung to the branches. A big farmhouse stood nearby, its stone walls largely intact, though the roof had long since collapsed, leaving only rotted beams jutting at odd angles.
John stepped inside, moving past broken furniture and moss creeping over the floorboards. Animal droppings in the corners told him that smaller creatures had claimed the space in the years since it was abandoned. He found the remnants of a larder, with barrels cracked open, their contents long decomposed. Near an old hearth, he uncovered a handful of tarnished copper coins.
Currency obtained: 4 copper pennies (Westerosi, no longer widely accepted).
Gillam had explained the local currency, and even if these coins had fallen out of use, metal was metal.
He considered his options. The orchard, the scraggly barley, the abundance of wild-growing food—it all pointed to opportunity. A proper stock of alcohol would fetch a good price even where gemstones and trinkets would not, and he had everything he needed to make it. It would mean a delay of a week or so, but he had no strict timeline to follow. He could afford the detour.
Decision made, he set to work.
He needed wood first. Not having enough wood on him, he set out a distance away to fell enough logs to build a hand-drawn cart, then used it to haul back more timber. He worked quickly and methodically to rebuild—replacing beams, laying down planks, reinforcing the walls with stone where needed. A clay roof would have been preferable, but he wasn't near a river, and this wasn't meant to be a permanent dwelling. Wood would do.
Once the house was habitable, he set up a brewing table in the corner of the main room, then built as many fermentation barrels as space allowed.
By nightfall, the work began in earnest. He pulped berries and apples, mashed root vegetables, and steeped herbs. Berries became wine, as did dandelion, tangy sorrel, and carrots. Mugwort, turnip, and skirret root went toward stronger spirits. Apples and crabapples turned to cider in his hands, and what scant grain he found became stout.
The only flaw in his plan was storage. Without clay or sand to craft bottles, he had no way to package the finished product in small, portable portions. He made do with kegs, marking them with simple carvings to set them apart.
As he worked, he considered his next steps. Yrga's people had been suspicious of his abilities, and Gillam had given him enough insight to suggest that Westeros might be much the same. He needed to be careful. Pulling items directly from his inventory in front of others was a risk—too strange, too unexplainable.
And while he was fairly confident at this point in his ability to deal with an attacker or two, if this side of the Wall really had laws and a central government to enforce them, then he couldn't just kill anyone who thought to attack him. Not without consequences.
His gaze landed on the cart he had built earlier. It would complicate the journey, but it would enable him to travel as a simple trader. No sudden appearances of things from thin air. No inexplicable feats. Just a man looking to barter his wares. That would get him into settlements without drawing too much attention.
It was time to see what lay further south.
—-
Harlon squinted into the distance, his breath misting in the crisp morning air. His son, Hugo, had run to fetch him from where he was fixing the fence line following a heavy snowfall, talking fast about a stranger coming up the path from the southwest. Harlon had expected some poor sod who'd lost his way, but what he saw instead made him pause mid-step.
The man wasn't very tall, but he was solidly built, broad in the shoulders, and moving with a steady ease that didn't match the deep tracks his cart wheels left in the slush. That cart was heavy, packed to bursting with kegs, yet the stranger pulled it alone, no mule or horse in sight. That alone was queer enough.
Stranger still was the man himself—an Andal by the look of him, blond-haired and green-eyed, with skin too smooth and teeth too straight for someone dragging a cart through the North in the dead of winter. Then there was the cloak. Black and thick, streaked with white, fine enough to put a lord's garb to shame. But beneath it, he wore something even odder, a whole mess of leather pouches and straps across his chest, like he was carrying half a house on his back.
When the stranger reached the fence, he stopped and called out, his voice pleasant, his common smooth but touched with an accent Harlon couldn't quite place.
"Hello, friend."
Harlon folded his arms, keeping his face still. "Ho."
"I wonder, could you tell me where I am?" the man asked, easy as you please. "I'm on my way to Last Hearth, but I fear I'm lost."
Harlon's eyes narrowed. Lost? If this man had come up from the Kingsroad, there was only one path leading to Last Hearth, and while less maintained, it was easy enough to follow. Even a halfwit could follow it without trouble. Had he lost his horse? Been robbed? Or was he lying through his pretty white teeth?
"Last Hearth is some four days that way," Harlon said, jerking his chin southwest, in the direction the man came from. Best to be civil. He might not trust the man, but he looked well-fed and well-clothed—like a trader, maybe. And rich traders meant coin, which meant trouble if you turned them away all rude-like.
The stranger smiled like they were having a friendly chat over a mug of ale. "Many thanks," he said, then tilted his head. "Do you know if I might come upon a village on my way? Or is Last Hearth the nearest settlement around?"
Harlon had started frowning before the man finished speaking. What kind of trader didn't know the land he was bringing goods to? He was about to tell him as much when the stranger raised a hand, almost sheepish. "It's my first time this far north, you see. I've been told the Umbers are great drinkers and I can earn my coin back many times over, but my guide disappeared on me, and thus I've been left to find my way myself. As you can tell, I ran into some trouble." He nodded back at the cart.
Harlon grunted. A fair enough story—if you squinted. A lost guide might explain the wandering, but not why the man carried all that weight himself like it was nothing. And what Andal came this far north alone, dressed like a lord but working like a mule?
Still, he kept his doubts to himself. "You'll find Wolfsrest on your way," he said at last. "Two days southwest, if you keep to the Wolfswood."
The stranger's handsome smile brightened. "Many thanks." And with that, he turned and hauled his cart effortlessly forward, deeper into Umber lands, the kegs rattling softly as he went.
Harlon watched him go, unease settling heavy in his gut. That man was either a fool, a liar, or something worse. He glanced at Hugo, still staring after the stranger with wide eyes.
"Get inside, lad," he murmured. "The chores won't do themselves."
—-----
After his helpful encounter at the farm, John continued on his way, using the distant Wolfswood as his guide, just as the farmer had suggested. With no need to rest, he simply lit a torch and pressed on through the night, the crunch of frostbitten earth beneath his boots the only sound accompanying him. By morning, the so-called Wolfsrest came into view.
Small, but unmistakably a village, it fit his expectations far more than Yrga's settlement had. Around fifteen squat stone houses, their roofs tiled with weathered wood shingles, clustered in a loose semi-oval. Little gardens, now barren with the season except a few greens, clung to their sides, while beyond them, a ring of fallow fields stretched toward the treeline.
At the village's center stood an old stone well, its edges worn smooth by years of use, flanked by a few sturdy wooden benches and tables. But it was not the well that caught John's attention—it was the forge. Tiny, tucked between two homes, but active, with a strong-looking man at work at its anvil. The sight lifted his spirits considerably.
As he rolled his cart into the center of the village, conversations hushed, and heads turned toward him. It was not the outright suspicion of Yrga's people, but the wary curiosity of small places when an unfamiliar face arrived.
John came to a stop near the well and let the cart's handles drop. "Hello, friends."
Silence stretched for a few beats before an elderly man stepped forward, his hesitation clear. Behind him, the thick-set blacksmith straightened, setting his hammer down with deliberate care.
"Ho," the old man greeted, seemingly assuming the role of village spokesman. "We don't get many of your kind here, stranger."
John arched his brow. Traders? Or just outsiders in general? Considering the village's size and its isolation, it could be either.
"I'm on my way to Last Hearth," John said, the lie slipping off his tongue easier the second time. More believable now, the closer he got to the Umber seat. "Got turned around after leaving the Kingsroad." He let out a rueful chuckle, playing the role of a hapless traveler. "This is Wolfsrest, isn't it? I can't have wandered that far off the trail."
"Aye," the man confirmed, the villagers visibly relaxing now that John had provided both a story and a general awareness of the area.
"Good, good." John made an obvious show of taking in the village, letting his gaze pass over the forge. Small, simple, likely used only for horseshoes, nails, and the repair of tools. Still, it was enough. If the smith had a spare anvil to sell—or was willing to let John borrow the forge—this stop could be more useful than expected.
"Well then, my mistake is your gain," he continued with an easy grin. "Would you be interested in my wares? I carry only the finest alcohol, and at very fair prices."
That got some interest. A few heads perked up, though the alderman frowned. "We are smallfolk," he said, hesitating before taking another look at John and tacking on a wary 'M'lord.' "I do not think we can afford your prices."
John ignored the title. "Do not worry, my friend. For being so welcoming to this weary traveler, I'll sell you a brew of your choice at one penny a cup—despite charging five elsewhere." He spread his hands magnanimously. "All I ask for is good company and conversation in return."
That did the trick. The last trace of hesitation in their shoulders eased as they crowded around him, wooden or clay cups in hand. Some went for the stout, having never tried a beer made of barley, marveling at its dark hue and rich, toasted flavor. Others reached for the fruit wine, the beverage apparently a rare treat in these parts. That surprised John—he'd seen plenty of forageable berries on his journey south.
"I tried wine once," a pimply-faced young man admitted, his shoulders broad with the strength of a laborer. "When we traveled to the lord to deliver the harvest. Tasted like vinegar." He took another sip of the blackberry wine, his eyes wide in appreciation. "But this—this is fit for a lord's table!"
John smiled, refilling the young man's cup before the demand for seconds swept him into a flurry of pouring. "What is the lord like?" he asked, voice light, conversational. A few coins jingled into his palm, though not nearly enough for what he had poured—but he had expected as much. Information was his real trade tonight.
"The Greatjon is as big and strong as a giant!" a woman boasted, clearly proud of their lord. "Only a few years into his majority, but he's already bested many wildlings in battle! If you bring brews as fine as this to Last Hearth, he'll drink you out of your entire cart."
John chuckled. "Sounds like as fine a lord as one can have."
The villagers nodded eagerly, already a little flushed from the drink. It seemed his alcohol was much stronger than they were used to. The conversation then turned to Last Hearth—the size of its hall, the strength of its warriors, and the Umbers' infamous appetite for both ale and violence. John listened, picking out useful details among the embellishments.
By the time the sky darkened and the last of the men staggered off, the village center lay quiet once more. They had made a dent in his stock and owed him more pennies than had been given, but John considered it a fair price. Besides, his inventory held more than enough to replace what was lost.
He caught the eye of the blacksmith as he made to leave as well, and hefted the half-empty keg of stout, which the man seemed to prefer. "A moment of your time, my good man." He gestured toward the forge. "I've run into a bit of a problem with my cart—might I use your forge to fix it?"
The man frowned, clearly skeptical. Perhaps worried about a stranger meddling with his tools, or perhaps just unwilling to entertain requests while inebriated.
John shifted the keg more meaningfully in his arms. "I would, of course, compensate you."
That was enough. The blacksmith nodded, and after taking the keg with a grunt, ambled away, leaving John alone in the village center.
The genial smile dropped from his face. With a quiet exhale, he rolled his shoulders, shaking off the persona he had worn for the past few hours.
He turned to the forge and pulled several iron ingots from his inventory. The only thing you needed to forge an anvil, after all, was another anvil.
—--
Author's notes
This felt a bit like a filler chapter to write, honestly, but I also felt it was necessary. John is getting better at blending in, though of course there are differences he doesn't quite realize he needs to adjust for yet. If you're wondering why he approached the farm from the southwest even though he's coming from the gift—he circled around when he glimpsed the farm, to better sell his story.
There's no age or year of birth given to Greatjon in the books (nor is his father named, though his uncles and grandfather are), but since Smalljon is older than Robb and we know Ned had Robb young (and also that the Greatjon took part in Robert's rebellion), I'm assuming Greatjon is a few years older than Ned, so around 21 in 280, and that his father had already died.
And now John has an anvil, finally, and can start working all that metal he's been hoarding up…
If you have any specific ideas around how you'd like John's journey between here and White Harbor to go, let me know! More foraging? More crafting? A bandit encounter? I'm game.
John held himself silent and motionless as the lights from the patrol ship slowly glided by. He'd been rowing for hours at this point, wanting to put a good distance between himself and Eastwatch before making landfall in case the Watch patrolled the coast. The moon was a thin sliver in the sky as he let the waves carry him forward; unless they shone a light directly on him, they wouldn't be able to see him.
And pass him they did, moving onward to catch some other unlucky bugger while John picked up his oars and resumed rowing.
An hour or two later, the sky began to lighten, and he could just barely make out land to his right. A boat left on the beach would be suspicious, he told himself. If anyone found it, they'd search for whoever had come ashore. Better to leave no trace.
Decision made, he slipped into the cold water without hesitation and began swimming. The waves tossed him, the current pulling at his limbs, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. He pushed forward, steady and unbothered by the chill, hoping nothing in the depths saw him as prey.
As he reached the shore he took a quick look around. The land here wasn't much different from where he'd set off—cold, rocky, and windswept. A few strands of kelp clung to the pebbles, which he gathered out of habit. Waste not, want not. There wasn't much else of use, not even sand for glass.
Dusting his hands off, he turned inland, heading southwest. Gillam had told him that the land pressed against the Wall was called the Gift—fertile, but abandoned due to frequent Freefolk raids. Having just easily crossed the water himself, John could understand why. And if a handful of Freefolk fighters had been trouble for him, farmers with no combat experience or inventory boosts wouldn't stand a chance.
He considered his next move. He could head west along the Wall until he reached Mole's Town, where he might do a bit of trading and then follow the Kingsroad to Winterfell, the seat of the rulers of the North, as this kingdom was called. There would be villages and inns along the way—opportunities for trade and information.
But Mole's Town was a Night's Watch haunt, a place of drinking and whores. He doubted his trinkets would sell well there, and soldiers tended to be suspicious by nature. He had no doubt he would stand out, at least until he learned more about the customs of this land. The Freefolk were one thing; the so-called civilized world might be another entirely.
An alternative was to cross the Gift and head for Last Hearth, the seat of the Umbers. Nobles had coin, and if they weren't interested, there was bound to be a town around their castle where he might find merchants and traders.
From there, he could gather information and plan his next steps with more certainty.
Mind made up, he set out across the snowy, rolling plains of the Gift.
—---
The land here really was fertile, at least compared to what he'd seen beyond the wall. Even in winter, the landscape carried signs of life. Rich soil, wild-growing food, and the scattered remnants of abandoned pastures spoke of a time when people had settled the Gift, only to be driven out.
Crumbling stone walls and broken wooden fences dotted the land, and John found himself walking through overgrown fields where grain had once been sown. The foraging here was abundant, better than he had seen since his arrival in this world; his inventory threatened to overfill despite the extra bags he had fashioned to hang from his bandolier.
He found dandelion, nettle, and wood sorrel, mugwort too; rowan berries, blackberries, and crabapples. Further on, he unearthed turnips, wild carrots, and even potatoes—likely remnants of past agriculture, left to spread on their own. Skirret root, sweet to the taste, added itself to his growing stock.
Then he came upon the orchard.
The trees were spaced in neat rows, their trunks gnarled with age. Windfall apples lay scattered on the ground, half-eaten by birds and insects, but many still clung to the branches. A big farmhouse stood nearby, its stone walls largely intact, though the roof had long since collapsed, leaving only rotted beams jutting at odd angles.
John stepped inside, moving past broken furniture and moss creeping over the floorboards. Animal droppings in the corners told him that smaller creatures had claimed the space in the years since it was abandoned. He found the remnants of a larder, with barrels cracked open, their contents long decomposed. Near an old hearth, he uncovered a handful of tarnished copper coins.
Currency obtained: 4 copper pennies (Westerosi, no longer widely accepted).
Gillam had explained the local currency, and even if these coins had fallen out of use, metal was metal.
He considered his options. The orchard, the scraggly barley, the abundance of wild-growing food—it all pointed to opportunity. A proper stock of alcohol would fetch a good price even where gemstones and trinkets would not, and he had everything he needed to make it. It would mean a delay of a week or so, but he had no strict timeline to follow. He could afford the detour.
Decision made, he set to work.
He needed wood first. Not having enough wood on him, he set out a distance away to fell enough logs to build a hand-drawn cart, then used it to haul back more timber. He worked quickly and methodically to rebuild—replacing beams, laying down planks, reinforcing the walls with stone where needed. A clay roof would have been preferable, but he wasn't near a river, and this wasn't meant to be a permanent dwelling. Wood would do.
Once the house was habitable, he set up a brewing table in the corner of the main room, then built as many fermentation barrels as space allowed.
By nightfall, the work began in earnest. He pulped berries and apples, mashed root vegetables, and steeped herbs. Berries became wine, as did dandelion, tangy sorrel, and carrots. Mugwort, turnip, and skirret root went toward stronger spirits. Apples and crabapples turned to cider in his hands, and what scant grain he found became stout.
The only flaw in his plan was storage. Without clay or sand to craft bottles, he had no way to package the finished product in small, portable portions. He made do with kegs, marking them with simple carvings to set them apart.
As he worked, he considered his next steps. Yrga's people had been suspicious of his abilities, and Gillam had given him enough insight to suggest that Westeros might be much the same. He needed to be careful. Pulling items directly from his inventory in front of others was a risk—too strange, too unexplainable.
And while he was fairly confident at this point in his ability to deal with an attacker or two, if this side of the Wall really had laws and a central government to enforce them, then he couldn't just kill anyone who thought to attack him. Not without consequences.
His gaze landed on the cart he had built earlier. It would complicate the journey, but it would enable him to travel as a simple trader. No sudden appearances of things from thin air. No inexplicable feats. Just a man looking to barter his wares. That would get him into settlements without drawing too much attention.
It was time to see what lay further south.
—-
Harlon squinted into the distance, his breath misting in the crisp morning air. His son, Hugo, had run to fetch him from where he was fixing the fence line following a heavy snowfall, talking fast about a stranger coming up the path from the southwest. Harlon had expected some poor sod who'd lost his way, but what he saw instead made him pause mid-step.
The man wasn't very tall, but he was solidly built, broad in the shoulders, and moving with a steady ease that didn't match the deep tracks his cart wheels left in the slush. That cart was heavy, packed to bursting with kegs, yet the stranger pulled it alone, no mule or horse in sight. That alone was queer enough.
Stranger still was the man himself—an Andal by the look of him, blond-haired and green-eyed, with skin too smooth and teeth too straight for someone dragging a cart through the North in the dead of winter. Then there was the cloak. Black and thick, streaked with white, fine enough to put a lord's garb to shame. But beneath it, he wore something even odder, a whole mess of leather pouches and straps across his chest, like he was carrying half a house on his back.
When the stranger reached the fence, he stopped and called out, his voice pleasant, his common smooth but touched with an accent Harlon couldn't quite place.
"Hello, friend."
Harlon folded his arms, keeping his face still. "Ho."
"I wonder, could you tell me where I am?" the man asked, easy as you please. "I'm on my way to Last Hearth, but I fear I'm lost."
Harlon's eyes narrowed. Lost? If this man had come up from the Kingsroad, there was only one path leading to Last Hearth, and while less maintained, it was easy enough to follow. Even a halfwit could follow it without trouble. Had he lost his horse? Been robbed? Or was he lying through his pretty white teeth?
"Last Hearth is some four days that way," Harlon said, jerking his chin southwest, in the direction the man came from. Best to be civil. He might not trust the man, but he looked well-fed and well-clothed—like a trader, maybe. And rich traders meant coin, which meant trouble if you turned them away all rude-like.
The stranger smiled like they were having a friendly chat over a mug of ale. "Many thanks," he said, then tilted his head. "Do you know if I might come upon a village on my way? Or is Last Hearth the nearest settlement around?"
Harlon had started frowning before the man finished speaking. What kind of trader didn't know the land he was bringing goods to? He was about to tell him as much when the stranger raised a hand, almost sheepish. "It's my first time this far north, you see. I've been told the Umbers are great drinkers and I can earn my coin back many times over, but my guide disappeared on me, and thus I've been left to find my way myself. As you can tell, I ran into some trouble." He nodded back at the cart.
Harlon grunted. A fair enough story—if you squinted. A lost guide might explain the wandering, but not why the man carried all that weight himself like it was nothing. And what Andal came this far north alone, dressed like a lord but working like a mule?
Still, he kept his doubts to himself. "You'll find Wolfsrest on your way," he said at last. "Two days southwest, if you keep to the Wolfswood."
The stranger's handsome smile brightened. "Many thanks." And with that, he turned and hauled his cart effortlessly forward, deeper into Umber lands, the kegs rattling softly as he went.
Harlon watched him go, unease settling heavy in his gut. That man was either a fool, a liar, or something worse. He glanced at Hugo, still staring after the stranger with wide eyes.
"Get inside, lad," he murmured. "The chores won't do themselves."
—-----
After his helpful encounter at the farm, John continued on his way, using the distant Wolfswood as his guide, just as the farmer had suggested. With no need to rest, he simply lit a torch and pressed on through the night, the crunch of frostbitten earth beneath his boots the only sound accompanying him. By morning, the so-called Wolfsrest came into view.
Small, but unmistakably a village, it fit his expectations far more than Yrga's settlement had. Around fifteen squat stone houses, their roofs tiled with weathered wood shingles, clustered in a loose semi-oval. Little gardens, now barren with the season except a few greens, clung to their sides, while beyond them, a ring of fallow fields stretched toward the treeline.
At the village's center stood an old stone well, its edges worn smooth by years of use, flanked by a few sturdy wooden benches and tables. But it was not the well that caught John's attention—it was the forge. Tiny, tucked between two homes, but active, with a strong-looking man at work at its anvil. The sight lifted his spirits considerably.
As he rolled his cart into the center of the village, conversations hushed, and heads turned toward him. It was not the outright suspicion of Yrga's people, but the wary curiosity of small places when an unfamiliar face arrived.
John came to a stop near the well and let the cart's handles drop. "Hello, friends."
Silence stretched for a few beats before an elderly man stepped forward, his hesitation clear. Behind him, the thick-set blacksmith straightened, setting his hammer down with deliberate care.
"Ho," the old man greeted, seemingly assuming the role of village spokesman. "We don't get many of your kind here, stranger."
John arched his brow. Traders? Or just outsiders in general? Considering the village's size and its isolation, it could be either.
"I'm on my way to Last Hearth," John said, the lie slipping off his tongue easier the second time. More believable now, the closer he got to the Umber seat. "Got turned around after leaving the Kingsroad." He let out a rueful chuckle, playing the role of a hapless traveler. "This is Wolfsrest, isn't it? I can't have wandered that far off the trail."
"Aye," the man confirmed, the villagers visibly relaxing now that John had provided both a story and a general awareness of the area.
"Good, good." John made an obvious show of taking in the village, letting his gaze pass over the forge. Small, simple, likely used only for horseshoes, nails, and the repair of tools. Still, it was enough. If the smith had a spare anvil to sell—or was willing to let John borrow the forge—this stop could be more useful than expected.
"Well then, my mistake is your gain," he continued with an easy grin. "Would you be interested in my wares? I carry only the finest alcohol, and at very fair prices."
That got some interest. A few heads perked up, though the alderman frowned. "We are smallfolk," he said, hesitating before taking another look at John and tacking on a wary 'M'lord.' "I do not think we can afford your prices."
John ignored the title. "Do not worry, my friend. For being so welcoming to this weary traveler, I'll sell you a brew of your choice at one penny a cup—despite charging five elsewhere." He spread his hands magnanimously. "All I ask for is good company and conversation in return."
That did the trick. The last trace of hesitation in their shoulders eased as they crowded around him, wooden or clay cups in hand. Some went for the stout, having never tried a beer made of barley, marveling at its dark hue and rich, toasted flavor. Others reached for the fruit wine, the beverage apparently a rare treat in these parts. That surprised John—he'd seen plenty of forageable berries on his journey south.
"I tried wine once," a pimply-faced young man admitted, his shoulders broad with the strength of a laborer. "When we traveled to the lord to deliver the harvest. Tasted like vinegar." He took another sip of the blackberry wine, his eyes wide in appreciation. "But this—this is fit for a lord's table!"
John smiled, refilling the young man's cup before the demand for seconds swept him into a flurry of pouring. "What is the lord like?" he asked, voice light, conversational. A few coins jingled into his palm, though not nearly enough for what he had poured—but he had expected as much. Information was his real trade tonight.
"The Greatjon is as big and strong as a giant!" a woman boasted, clearly proud of their lord. "Only a few years into his majority, but he's already bested many wildlings in battle! If you bring brews as fine as this to Last Hearth, he'll drink you out of your entire cart."
John chuckled. "Sounds like as fine a lord as one can have."
The villagers nodded eagerly, already a little flushed from the drink. It seemed his alcohol was much stronger than they were used to. The conversation then turned to Last Hearth—the size of its hall, the strength of its warriors, and the Umbers' infamous appetite for both ale and violence. John listened, picking out useful details among the embellishments.
By the time the sky darkened and the last of the men staggered off, the village center lay quiet once more. They had made a dent in his stock and owed him more pennies than had been given, but John considered it a fair price. Besides, his inventory held more than enough to replace what was lost.
He caught the eye of the blacksmith as he made to leave as well, and hefted the half-empty keg of stout, which the man seemed to prefer. "A moment of your time, my good man." He gestured toward the forge. "I've run into a bit of a problem with my cart—might I use your forge to fix it?"
The man frowned, clearly skeptical. Perhaps worried about a stranger meddling with his tools, or perhaps just unwilling to entertain requests while inebriated.
John shifted the keg more meaningfully in his arms. "I would, of course, compensate you."
That was enough. The blacksmith nodded, and after taking the keg with a grunt, ambled away, leaving John alone in the village center.
The genial smile dropped from his face. With a quiet exhale, he rolled his shoulders, shaking off the persona he had worn for the past few hours.
He turned to the forge and pulled several iron ingots from his inventory. The only thing you needed to forge an anvil, after all, was another anvil.
—--
Author's notes
This felt a bit like a filler chapter to write, honestly, but I also felt it was necessary. John is getting better at blending in, though of course there are differences he doesn't quite realize he needs to adjust for yet. If you're wondering why he approached the farm from the southwest even though he's coming from the gift—he circled around when he glimpsed the farm, to better sell his story.
There's no age or year of birth given to Greatjon in the books (nor is his father named, though his uncles and grandfather are), but since Smalljon is older than Robb and we know Ned had Robb young (and also that the Greatjon took part in Robert's rebellion), I'm assuming Greatjon is a few years older than Ned, so around 21 in 280, and that his father had already died.
And now John has an anvil, finally, and can start working all that metal he's been hoarding up…
If you have any specific ideas around how you'd like John's journey between here and White Harbor to go, let me know! More foraging? More crafting? A bandit encounter? I'm game.