Brandon stirred awake and immediately realized it was still dark. He quietly looked around their campsite and saw that nearly all of his brothers were still asleep around the dying campfire. Only the ranger assigned to be the third watch remained awake, though the man had wandered a short distance away from the camp to relieve himself. Brandon closed his eyes again, hoping to drift back to sleep, but after several minutes of lying still, he let out a quiet sigh and opened them once more. It seemed he had already gotten all the sleep he was going to get that night.
Slowly sitting up, he stretched his arms before rising to his feet and working the stiffness from his legs. His eyes instinctively swept over the surrounding forest, searching for anything out of place. Before long, he spotted Donnel patrolling the perimeter not far from the camp, and seeing his brother carrying out his duty without incident, Brandon gave a small nod of approval.
His attention then shifted toward the wildlings' camp a short distance away. As agreed the previous evening, the two groups had established separate camps with enough distance between them to avoid unnecessary friction. Neither side trusted the other, and forcing them to share the same fire would have been asking for trouble.
Surprisingly, it had been the red-haired youth who suggested the arrangement, and after giving it some thought, Brandon had agreed. Looking toward the other camp, he noticed that the one keeping watch was none other than the red-haired lad himself.
Brandon could not help but find it strange. For someone so young, well, he had certainly been shocked to learn just how young the red-haired lad was, along with the rest of his companions, the boy was unusually perceptive, always seeming to know exactly what to say or do to keep both groups at ease. More than that, he possessed knowledge that no ordinary wildling should have. During their conversation earlier that day, he had spoken with surprising familiarity about the current year and even asked about the political situation south of the Wall. Still, Brandon supposed Edric must have told the red-haired lad at least that much during their journey together, so he chose not to dwell on it any further. Pushing those thoughts aside, he silently stretched the stiffness from his legs before preparing himself for another day in this godforsaken land.
He spent some time walking around the campsite, inspecting the perimeter while keeping an eye on the horses the Lord Commander had given the wildlings. They were old animals with no more than four to six years of life left in them, but that mattered little to him. If the wildlings betrayed them or failed to lead them to Jorund's settlement as promised, he fully intended to put the horses down before allowing them to escape with valuable mounts belonging to the Watch.
As he continued his patrol, he noticed the red-haired lad rise from his place beside the wildlings' campfire and casually wave in his direction. Not wishing to appear discourteous while relying on the young wildling as their guide, Brandon simply returned the gesture with a brief nod before continuing his inspection of the surrounding woods. As the first rays of dawn began creeping over the eastern horizon, he woke his brothers and ordered them to prepare for the day's journey. He also noticed that the wildlings had all risen at nearly the same time, each of them quietly going about their own tasks without needing to be told what to do.
Throughout the previous day and well into the night, Brandon had kept a watchful eye on the surrounding forest, half expecting the two shadowcats Garth and the others had spoken of to appear, but the beasts never showed themselves. For a brief moment, he found himself wondering whether those stories had been exaggerated. Not that he was particularly afraid of shadowcats. During his years as a ranger, he had already killed two of the beasts himself. Had it been direwolves instead, however, he never would have agreed on this expedition. Even experienced rangers knew better than to underestimate direwolves. Fortunately, throughout their journey so far, he had seen no sign that any of the wildlings traveling with them were wargs either, easing one of his greatest concerns.
Shaking the thought from his mind, he ordered his men to finish packing their belongings and prepare their first meal of the day. And once both groups had finished eating and exchanged a few words to confirm the day's route, they broke camp and resumed their journey toward Jorund's supposed settlement.
By the time the sun stood high overhead, they called for their first rest of the day. Judging by the distance they had covered, Brandon estimated they had traveled close to twenty leagues. Considering the rough terrain and the winding paths they had been forced to take through the Haunted Forest, it was respectable progress.
As Brandon studied the beastskin map the red-haired lad had provided, measuring the distance they had already traveled and estimating that they would likely reach Jorund's settlement by the following day at the latest, the young wildling approached him.
"What d' ye think about a spar, First Ranger Crow?" the red-haired lad asked with a grin. "It's been dull since yesterday. All we've done is sit on our horses and ride. Might as well entertain ourselves a little."
Brandon folded the beastskin map and tucked it into his pocket before looking at the youth standing before him. He considered the suggestion for a moment before deciding there was no real reason to refuse. It had been some time since he had crossed blades with a wildling and pummeled them, and the exercise would help pass the time. Glancing toward his brothers, he saw the eager expressions on their faces and realized they were thinking the very same thing. A faint smirk spread across his lips before he answered.
"Why not? It's been a while since I've had a proper practice with my sword." He tilted his head slightly before adding, "So... wooden weapons or real steel? I'll let you choose."
"Real steel, 'course," Ivar replied without hesitation. "But we should add a wager t' make the spar more excitin'. How about daggers and any spare weapons we've got? That should make things interestin', don't ye think?" As he spoke, he drew the four daggers from his belt one by one and displayed them openly, making it clear that he had no shortage of blades to put on the line.
"Brandon!" one of the rangers called out with a laugh. "Looks like this brat's really askin' fer it. He's even got his wager ready."
"Hahaha! The lad's got some nerve!"
Brandon paid no attention to his brothers' teasing. His eyes remained fixed on the red-haired youth. What gave this brat the confidence to think he could defeat him? Not only had he challenged the First Ranger of the Night's Watch, but he had also proposed wagering valuable weapons on the outcome. Fine, Brandon thought. If the boy wanted to learn a lesson, he would make sure it was one he would never forget.
"Very well," Brandon said. "You proposed the wager yourself, lad. Don't come cryin' t' me when you lose."
A broad smile spread across Ivar's face.
"Don't worry. I won't." He chuckled lightly before continuing, "I plan t' build a reputation as a man who keeps his word. How would yer Lord Commander see me if I backed out now when I come tradin' again? I'd only shame meself if I ever backed out o' a fair wager."
He glanced down at the daggers in his hands before looking back at Brandon. "So, how many daggers are we wagerin'? I've got four on me, but I reckon my companions would want t' join in as well."
He turned toward his companions. "Right?"
"Aye!" Haldor shouted enthusiastically, throwing both arms into the air. The others simply nodded, their confidence in Ivar obvious even without words.
Turning back to the rangers, Ivar grinned. "See? They want t' join the fun too."
By now, Brandon could feel a dull throb forming in his temples. The brat was acting as though victory was already his, completely disregarding Brandon's skill with a sword. His irritation only strengthened his resolve. He would beat the boy soundly, then send him back to his companions thoroughly embarrassed.
Silently counting the weapons at his own belt while confident in his own victory, Brandon nodded. "I've got five daggers. We can wager those."
"Oi, Brandon!" one of the rangers called out. "We've got daggers too! Add ours t' the pile!"
"I've got two spare ones with me!"
In the end, both sides agreed to wager ten daggers apiece. The weapons were placed in a neat pile between the two groups, where everyone could plainly see them. With the terms settled, the wildlings and rangers formed a wide circle around the clearing, leaving Brandon and Ivar standing alone at its center. Neither man moved. Their eyes remained locked on one another as they quietly searched for the smallest weakness, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
Silently, Ivar circulated his qi through his sword, reinforcing it with durability. He knew the quality of the fine steel the First Ranger carried and was concerned that, without strengthening his own blade, it might snap after only a few exchanges. He deliberately refrained from enhancing the sword's sharpness. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally cut through Brandon's weapon. Just imagining how he would explain something like that afterward was enough to give him a headache. Durability alone would be more than enough to protect his own blade.
The two slowly circled one another, each matching the other's movements. Ivar drifted to his left, while Brandon mirrored him, neither willing to commit first. The moment Ivar sensed the First Ranger shifting his weight in preparation to attack, he struck without hesitation. The sudden offensive caught Brandon by surprise, allowing Ivar to seize the initiative from the very first exchange.
Steel rang sharply through the clearing as their swords collided again and again. Refusing to surrender the advantage, Ivar pressed forward relentlessly, increasing the speed of his attacks with every passing moment. His sword swept from left to right, then high before cutting low, forcing Brandon to respond to one strike after another without the slightest opportunity to counterattack. Every attempt the First Ranger made to regain the initiative was smothered beneath another relentless assault, leaving him with no choice but to focus entirely on defending himself.
Ivar had long since lost track of how much time had passed, but it soon became clear that Brandon was nearing his limit. The First Ranger had already been forced backward several paces and was on the verge of being driven out of the circle formed by the spectators.
Seeing that, Ivar deliberately eased his assault before abruptly stepping back, masking the movement by breathing heavily as though he had exhausted himself. He wanted Brandon to lose, but not so decisively that the First Ranger would lose all face before his own men. There was no benefit in humiliating him.
The purpose of this spar had never been to embarrass the First Ranger. From the very beginning, Ivar's goal had been to show the crows that neither he nor his companions were easy prey. He had noticed the way they looked down on his group since the start of the journey, as though they could overpower them whenever they pleased. That misconception needed to be corrected before it led someone to make a fatal mistake. If the Night's Watch ever decided to attack them out of misplaced confidence and he ended up killing one of them in self-defense, whatever trust he had painstakingly begun building would vanish in an instant. By displaying just enough of his skill without completely crushing Brandon's pride, Ivar hoped to leave them with a simple message: his group was fully capable of defending itself, and anyone who chose to fight them would pay a heavy price.
The clearing fell into complete silence. None of the onlookers spoke, their eyes fixed on the two swordsmen as they stood facing one another breathing hard. Only when it became obvious that neither intended to resume attacking immediately did Haldor suddenly break the silence.
"Yeh! That's my Ivar! That's our leader!" he shouted, throwing both fists into the air. "Ye see that? No one in this frozen land can beat him! Yeh!"
He jumped up and down in excitement before finally calming himself. The rest of his companions could not hide their smiles either. Winning another dagger was already a pleasant surprise, though more than one of them quietly wished Ivar had proposed wagering the horses instead. Compared to a handful of daggers, the mounts were worth far more. Several of them silently hoped another wager would follow so they could take those as well.
The rangers, on the other hand, remained unnervingly quiet. One after another, they exchanged stunned glances before instinctively resting their hands on the hilts of their swords. Their eyes slowly drifted toward the other wildlings standing around the clearing. If one of them possessed this level of skill, what about the rest? None of them dared lower their guard any longer, mentally preparing themselves in case the situation suddenly turned hostile.
Brandon himself was equally stunned. Never in his wildest imagination had he expected the red-haired youth to fight like that. Throughout the entire exchange, he had been forced onto the defensive, unable to launch even a single meaningful attack of his own. Breathing heavily, he replayed every movement in his mind. Refusing to believe he had been so thoroughly overwhelmed, he convinced himself that the first exchange had merely caught him off guard. Now that he understood how the lad fought, things would be different.
Drawing a deep breath, Brandon launched himself forward once more. Steel clashed sharply through the clearing as he immediately seized the offensive.
A faint smirk crept across his face. At last, he had forced the brat onto the defensive. So the first exchange really had been nothing more than a surprise attack, he thought.
Determined to end the spar quickly, Brandon unleashed one attack after another. His sword cut through the air with practiced precision, each strike aimed at what appeared to be an opening. Yet every single time, the red-haired youth met the attack with perfect timing. Whenever Brandon thought he had finally broken through the lad's guard, Ivar's blade would appear at the last possible moment, deflecting the strike before smoothly flowing into another defense.
The more Brandon attacked, the more frustrated he became. He had initially assumed the wildling was merely buying time to recover from exhaustion after that relentless opening assault, yet minutes passed and the boy's movements remained as steady as ever. Every apparent weakness turned out to be another trap, every opportunity vanished before Brandon could capitalize on it.
Before long, sweat was pouring down his face, his breathing had grown noticeably heavier, and the confidence he had regained only moments earlier slowly began to fade. Around them, even the rangers who had started cheering when Brandon took the initiative had fallen silent once more as they realized that, despite controlling the tempo, their First Ranger still could not break through his opponent's defense.
Watching Brandon grow increasingly committed to the offensive, Ivar decided he had given the First Ranger enough face. It was finally time to end the spar. Deliberately allowing his posture to sag ever so slightly, he feigned fatigue and left what appeared to be an opening along his left side. Just as he expected, Brandon immediately took the bait, driving his sword toward the exposed flank. This time, however, Ivar did far more than simply parry. The instant their blades met, he redirected Brandon's strike with a twist of his wrist before flowing seamlessly into a rapid series of five consecutive attacks. Each strike forced Brandon farther off balance than the last until the First Ranger stumbled backward and crashed onto the ground. The final cut left only a shallow wound across Brandon's shoulder before Ivar stepped forward and placed the tip of his sword lightly against the man's throat.
Breathing heavily from the effort, Ivar smiled faintly. "I won."
His words immediately drew loud cheers from his companions, especially Haldor, who threw his head back and laughed heartily. "Yeh! That's what I said! We won!"
Meanwhile, the rangers remained deathly silent. Had they not spoken earlier, one might have thought they had all suddenly turned mute.
Brandon stared at the red-haired wildling before him, a complicated mix of disbelief and frustration visible in his eyes. He slowly climbed back to his feet, still unable to fully comprehend what had happened, especially the final series of attacks that had sent him crashing to the ground. For a brief instant during that exchange, he had truly felt death brush past him. Every strike had been so precise and relentless that, had this not been a spar, he had little doubt the young wildling could have killed him. The confidence and pride he had carried into the duel had all but vanished.
"Aye," Brandon admitted quietly. "You won."
"But….." One of his brothers instinctively tried to protest, only to immediately fall silent after Brandon shot him a warning glance.
Taking a deep breath, Brandon looked back at Ivar.
"The daggers are yers now," he said. "But don't think fer a second that I'll let you keep 'em. We'll spar again on the morrow."
He glanced down at the shallow cut on his shoulder before turning toward his men. "What're you all standin' around fer? Break's over. We're movin'."
As he walked away, Brandon's thoughts remained on the duel. He needed time to think through everything that had happened and reassess the danger facing both himself and his brothers. Until now, he had accepted this arrangement because he believed the six rangers accompanying him could easily overpower the five wildlings if they attempted to betray them or lead them into an ambush. After witnessing Ivar's skill with a blade, however, he was no longer certain of that. For the first time since agreeing to this journey, doubt had begun creeping into his mind, and with it came a painful blow to his pride as the First Ranger of the Night's Watch.
Ivar let out a light laugh as he watched Brandon walk away.
"Don't take it too hard," he called after him. "I'm sure ye can win everythin' back on the morrow."
With that, he bent down and gathered the daggers lying in the middle of the clearing before carrying them back to his companions, who were already eagerly waiting to divide the spoils.
"We're not keepin' the daggers we won," Ivar said, stopping them before anyone could claim a prize. "There're still plenty o' men back at the settlement without proper weapons. We'll give these daggers t' those who know how t' use 'em. Maybe we can make these into spearheads or any other weapons to make up for the reach."
Haldor, who had already reached out toward the pile, froze mid-motion and looked at Ivar in disbelief. "Why? We won these ourselves."
"I won these fer all of us, Haldor," Ivar replied calmly. "If we want our people t' grow stronger, then we have t' share what we gain. Besides, we've already got enough weapons fer ourselves. There's no point carryin' extra daggers when others don't even have one back at home."
Haldor's shoulders immediately slumped, and much of the excitement drained from his face. Even so, he understood Ivar's reasoning. Letting out a defeated sigh, he simply reclaimed the single dagger he had personally wagered before walking back toward his gear to prepare for the journey.
Ulf also retrieved his own dagger before commenting, "Even with these, we're still a long way from armin' everyone back home."
"I know," Ivar replied with a nod as he handed Torren and Maera the daggers they had each contributed to the wager. "But every weapon we bring back is one less person fightin' empty-handed. This is only the beginnin'."
He looked around at his companions before giving his next order. "Get yer gear packed. We're movin'. And don't forget t' keep gettin' used t' ridin' those horses."
None of them were truly comfortable in the saddle yet. Every now and then, one of them would still lose their balance or nearly fall while riding, but they were steadily improving since yesterday. Even Ivar was still adjusting to horseback travel, though he could already feel himself becoming more confident than when they had first received the mounts.
"Aye."
"Aye."
The two groups resumed their journey and traveled for the rest of the day. This time, very little was said between them. Not that his companions could understand the crows even if they wanted to. They had yet to learn the Common Tongue that Ivar had been teaching them. As for their own language, Ivar suspected it was simply the Old Tongue, albeit a rougher and older dialect than the Common Tongue spoken south of the Wall. He still had no idea why some free folk spoke the Common Tongue so fluently, the ones he encountered near the wall, but he did not dwell on the mystery. What mattered was that he himself could speak it now, and that was enough.
From time to time, the crows cast wary glances over their shoulders toward the wildlings. Ivar paid them no mind. At the very least, they now understood that neither he nor his companions were easy prey and would think twice before trying anything foolish. Brandon remained unusually quiet throughout the journey, often stealing thoughtful glances in Ivar's direction. Whenever Ivar noticed them, he simply smiled back. He had no intention of becoming the First Ranger's enemy. Even after defeating him once, he still wanted the crows to see him as someone they could deal with.
By the time the day came to an end, they had covered another fifteen leagues before making camp on a patch of high ground. Ivar took it upon himself to hunt for dinner and soon returned with several hares and a few birds. As he had Maera prepared the meat, he offered part of it to the crows. Although they looked at him with visible suspicion, he insisted they take it. After Brandon accepted first, the rest of the rangers reluctantly followed.
The night passed without incident, and they resumed their journey at first light the following morning. They were drawing ever closer to Jorund's settlement. As before, Ivar rode ahead to scout the route, carefully leading his men and the crows around free folk camps and settlements to avoid unnecessary misunderstandings or pointless clashes.
When they stopped to rest at midday, Brandon challenged him to another spar and Ivar accepted without hesitation.
The result was much the same as the day before. After more than ten minutes of exchanging blows, Brandon was defeated once again. Ivar could have ended the duel within the first few exchanges, but he deliberately prolonged the fight and allowed it to appear far closer than it truly was. There was no reason to humiliate the First Ranger any further.
This time, Brandon's spare castle-forged sword became the wager's prize. Unable to hide his satisfaction, Ivar smiled as he admired the weapon. At last, he could retire his crude sword and replace it with a proper blade. The rangers watched him with deeply furrowed brows, their expressions growing increasingly solemn, while Ivar merely returned their stares with a friendly smile before celebrating another victory with his companions.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, they finally reached their destination. Ivar dismounted first and chose a sheltered enclosure where they could tie the horses without fear of them wandering off. His companions quickly followed suit. After informing the rangers that they had arrived, he explained that the remainder of the journey would have to be made on foot. Horses were far too conspicuous if they wished to remain unseen.
After walking another half league across a series of low ridges, Ivar signaled everyone to crouch. Remaining low himself, he carefully crested the rise until Jorund's settlement came into view once more. Hundreds upon hundreds of tents stretched across the valley below.
The expressions on the rangers' faces were almost amusing to watch, and Ivar could not help but chuckle quietly to himself. Brandon, however, wore a grave expression, his eyes fixed on the sprawling encampment below. Giving the rangers ample time to take in the sight, Ivar slowly backed away from the crest before standing upright where he could no longer be seen from the valley. A few minutes later, the rangers followed.
"Ye don't need t' ask whether that's really Jorund's settlement, do ye?" Ivar said. "No man beyond the Wall commands that many warriors aside from Sylas."
Brandon gave a slow nod, his brow still furrowed. "Have you counted how many men he has?"
"Aye," Ivar replied, folding his arms across his chest. "Only an estimate, but I'd say five thousand, maybe more."
He paused briefly before continuing. "I've delivered my end o' the bargain. I expect we'll part ways on the morrow on good terms, Crow. I'd still like t' trade with yer people."
Brandon regarded the red-haired wildling with conflicted eyes. Everything about him felt... wrong. The lad spoke, negotiated, and planned more like a southron than a man born beyond the Wall.
"Aye," Brandon finally answered. "You kept your word. You're leavin' on the morrow?"
"Aye." Ivar nodded. "We've been away from our settlement fer nearly a moon now, and it'll still take us about a sennight t' get back."
After a brief pause, he gestured toward the trees. "Come. Let's find a place t' camp fer the night."
Without waiting for a reply, he led the way toward a campsite he had already chosen.
Brandon let out a quiet sigh before signaling his brothers to follow. As he walked after the red-haired wildling, his thoughts drifted to the horses, the very horses he had once intended to kill if the wildlings betrayed them. Thankfully, the Lord Commander had been farsighted enough to issue them only old geldings that had long since outlived their usefulness as warhorses.
After catching up to the red-haired wildling, Brandon finally gave voice to a question that had been lingering in his mind. "Where does your clan live? And what's it called?"
Edric had already provided some of the information about these wildlings but he still needed to confirm them.
Ivar smiled faintly before answering.
"Lookin' fer information about us, are ye?" he said teasingly. After a brief pause, he continued, "Further north beyond the antler river. As fer our name... I still haven't come up with one, so I can't answer that."
Brandon fell silent, pondering the response as they continued toward where the horses had been tied. After a few moments, he finally spoke again.
"Then I'll just call your people the Red-Haired Clan from now on."
Ivar said nothing in reply, merely curling his lips into an amused smile. The name unexpectedly reminded him of a manga series from his first life, and the thought almost made him laugh.
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A/N: Please don't forget to rate and review the story after reading. And if you want to read ahead. You know where to look.