Morning arrived slowly beyond the Wall. The sky was pale and empty, the kind of cold morning where the world seemed frozen not only in ice, but in time itself. Snow stretched across the valleys like an endless white sea, broken only by black stone ridges and the dark lines of distant forests. Beneath the fading stars, the camp of the Free Folk stirred quietly. Smoke rose from several fires as hunters prepared for the day, sharpening blades and tying leather straps around their boots. The feast from the night before had left the camp in high spirits, though the cold morning air had returned a sense of seriousness to the valley; life beyond the Wall allowed celebration, but it never allowed carelessness.
Jon Snow walked slowly between the tents, the snow crunching beneath his boots as Ghost moved beside him, a great direwolf gliding silently through the morning frost. Ahead of them, a group of hunters gathered around a map scratched into the snow with the point of a spear. Tormund Giantsbane stood in the center, arguing loudly as usual.
"I'm telling you the herd moved east."
One of the hunters shook his head. "No. The tracks we found yesterday went north."
"Tracks lie," Tormund replied confidently.
"Tracks do not lie."
"They do when snow falls."
The men laughed as Jon stepped closer.
"What's the argument today?"
"Food," Tormund turned and grinned. Jon crouched beside the rough map drawn in the snow and suggested they should hunt the northern ridge.
"Why?" one asked.
Jon pointed toward the distant mountains. "The wind changed last night. Herds move away from the coldest winds."
Tormund scratched his beard. "That actually makes sense."
"Occasionally."
The hunters soon scattered across the valley, leaving Jon and Tormund standing alone in the cold morning light. Tormund crossed his arms, studying Jon carefully.
"You slept poorly."
Jon shrugged. "I slept."
"That is not the same thing."
Jon looked toward the distant southern horizon, the rumors from the night before lingering in his mind—a dragon seen across the Narrow Sea, and perhaps something more. Tormund followed his gaze.
"You are thinking about the trader."
"Yes."
Tormund kicked a small stone into the snow. "Men see strange things when they sail too long."
"That may be true."
"But you do not believe it."
Jon hesitated. "Dragons existed once."
"Yes."
"And they disappeared."
"Yes."
Tormund shrugged. "Then perhaps they stayed gone."
The wind shifted suddenly across the valley, carrying a sharp gust of snow through the camp. The cold air felt restless, as if the land itself had heard the rumors. From the far side of the camp, a shout suddenly rose.
"Riders!"
Jon turned immediately to see two figures approaching across the frozen valley, their cloaks snapping in the wind as they rode hard toward the camp. Tormund frowned.
"More traders?"
"Perhaps."
The riders reached the camp quickly, their horses breathing heavily as they came to a halt near the fires. They were not traders; they were Free Folk. One of them slid down from his horse and spoke breathlessly.
"We came from Hardhome."
"What happened?"
The man wiped frost from his beard. "A ship arrived."
"A ship?" Tormund repeated.
"From the south."
Jon stepped forward. "What did they bring?"
"Stories."
"What kind of stories?"
The man hesitated. "The same stories spreading across the Narrow Sea."
"A dragon," Jon said quietly.
The rider nodded. "Yes."
"Seven hells."
Jon looked at the rider. "Who told you?"
"Sailors."
"Drunk sailors?"
"Some."
"And the others?"
"Merchants. Captains. Men who swear they saw it with their own eyes."
The wind howled briefly through the valley, and Jon felt something heavy settle in his chest.
"And the queen?"
The rider looked uncertain. "That part changes depending on who tells the story. Some say she died. Some say the dragon carried her away. And some say she lives."
The camp had grown quiet as the Free Folk nearby stopped their work to listen. Tormund shook his head slowly.
"Rumors travel faster than winter."
Jon remained silent. This rumor had a name: Daenerys Targaryen. The rider looked around the camp nervously, adding that more ships were arriving in Hardhome with more stories.
"What kind of questions?"
The rider looked directly at Jon. "They are asking about you. The man who killed the Dragon Queen."
The wind moved again through the valley. Jon's expression did not change, but inside him, something stirred. The past had begun moving again, like snow caught in a rising wind. Tormund looked at him carefully.
"Well. That cannot possibly lead to trouble."
Jon did not smile. He understood that rumors were never just stories. They were sparks, and somewhere far beyond the Narrow Sea, something had begun to burn.