The Free Folk did not celebrate quietly.
When the hunters returned with food enough for the entire camp, the valley beyond the Wall came alive with laughter, shouting, and the crackling sound of fires rising into the cold evening air.
Great spits were placed over the flames as strips of venison and reindeer meat roasted slowly, filling the camp with the rich smell of meat and smoke. Barrels of fermented goat's milk and rough northern ale were opened while children ran between the tents and warriors argued loudly about who had made the best kill of the day.
Beyond the Wall, feasts were not planned.
They simply happened.
Jon Snow stood near one of the fires, watching the chaos unfold. A young hunter tried to pull an entire roasted leg from the spit, burned his hands, and dropped the meat straight into the snow.
The surrounding warriors roared with laughter.
"Careful!" someone shouted. "The snow might eat it before you do!"
Jon shook his head with a faint smile.
Among the Free Folk, laughter came easily.
Behind him, a heavy arm suddenly wrapped around his shoulders.
"You stand too quietly for a feast," said Tormund Giantsbane.
Jon glanced sideways.
"I'm observing."
"You are brooding."
"I am not brooding."
Tormund grinned.
"You brood like a southern lord."
Jon grabbed a wooden cup and filled it from a barrel before handing one to Tormund.
"If that were true, I would also be complaining about the wine."
Tormund sniffed the drink suspiciously.
"This tastes like a goat drowned in a barrel."
"That is because it probably did."
Tormund laughed loudly and drank anyway.
Around them, the feast grew louder. Several warriors had begun chanting while pounding their cups against the wooden tables.
Tormund groaned.
"They are about to sing."
"That sounds dangerous."
"It is."
One of the warriors climbed onto a rock beside the fire and raised his arms dramatically.
"Listen well!" he shouted.
"No one wants to listen," another voice replied.
"Too bad!"
The warrior began singing loudly while the others joined in with heavy stomping.
"There once was a giant from Frostfang hill
Who drank three rivers and drank them still
He ate two mammoths and swallowed a tree
And asked for a fourth cup of mead from me!"
The camp roared with laughter as the singers slammed their cups together.
Another group quickly began their own song.
"A hunter once chased a white snow hare
Through frozen woods and icy air
He ran for hours with spear in hand
Then tripped on ice and kissed the land!"
The entire camp laughed as the unlucky hunter in question raised his cup proudly.
"Still caught the hare!" he shouted.
Someone threw a bone at him.
Then the loudest singer in the camp stood on a wooden table and cleared his throat dramatically.
"Oh no," Tormund muttered.
Jon looked at him.
"What?"
"The worst song."
The singer began loudly.
"There once was a warrior strong and tall
Who married three sisters one springtime fall
The first one shouted, the second one cried
The third one laughed till the warrior died!"
The entire camp exploded into laughter.
Jon raised an eyebrow.
"That sounds unrealistic."
Tormund shook his head.
"It is a very tragic story."
"How so?"
"The warrior died before the winter ended."
Jon laughed quietly.
For a moment, the cold valley beyond the Wall felt warm.
These people had survived winters that destroyed kingdoms. They lived without castles, without kings, without laws written on parchment.
Yet they lived freely.
One of the older hunters sat beside Jon and handed him a strip of roasted meat.
"You fight well for a crow."
Jon accepted the food.
"I stopped being a crow a long time ago."
The hunter shrugged.
"To us, you will always be half crow."
Jon smiled slightly.
"That sounds fair."
Nearby, the singers started another song while pounding their cups loudly.
"Raise your cup to the frozen sky
Where wolves still hunt and kings still die
No throne survives the winter's breath
All crowns must kneel to snow and death!"
The warriors shouted the final line together.
"SNOW AND DEATH!"
The fire crackled between them.
Then one of the southern traders approached cautiously.
"You celebrate well," he said.
Tormund looked at him.
"We celebrate surviving."
"That is a good reason."
The trader sat beside the fire and glanced at Jon.
"Word will spread quickly about what we told you."
Jon watched the flames.
"Rumors travel faster than truth."
"That is true."
The trader lowered his voice slightly.
"But this rumor is different."
Tormund leaned back.
"How many men claim to have seen this dragon?"
"More than I expected."
"Men also claim to see ghosts."
The trader looked directly at Jon.
"Ghosts do not burn ships."
Jon remained silent.
After a moment, the trader spoke again.
"Some sailors say the dragon flies above the ruins of Valyria."
Tormund frowned.
"Nothing lives in Valyria."
"That is what people believed."
Jon finally spoke.
"And the queen?"
The trader hesitated.
"The stories are less certain."
"Meaning?"
"Some say the dragon protects something."
Jon felt the cold wind brush his face.
"What kind of something?"
The trader lowered his voice.
"A woman."
The fire popped loudly.
The laughter from the feast continued around them, but the moment between Jon and Tormund grew quiet.
Tormund looked at Jon carefully.
"You see why rumors are dangerous."
Jon nodded slowly.
Because this rumor was not just about dragons.
It was about the past.
And the past had a way of returning when least expected.
Jon stared into the fire while the singers behind him began another wild song.
Somewhere beyond the Narrow Sea, a dragon had been seen.
And if the dragon truly lived…
Then the story he believed had ended five years ago might only be beginning again.