Jon I

Jon Snow knew the North was not the richest of the Seven Kingdoms. He'd learned as much from Maester Luwin, but, gods be good, he didn't know, not really.

Now he knew.

They traveled down the Roseroad, carting half a hundred weirwood saplings with their roots bound up in roughspun sacks. At the urging of Sarella Sand, dark and tall and straight as a spear, Jon pricked his finger and fed a few drops of his blood to one tree or another every day. Their guards and serving men did much the same. Some had come down from the Vale, having been Lord Moonfort's wild men, and some served the Blackwoods of Raventree. Now, they all served the holy mission: bringing the gods south, as far south as south goes.

The further south they went, the more people they saw, all kinds of people, fat and happy and richly attired in bright colors. It was hard to believe winter ever touched these lands that smelled of fruit and summerwine and freshly baked bread. Every meal was richer than the last, with innkeepers providing platters of plums and melons free of charge to go along with their roast capons, rich fluffy bread rolls baked with eggs in the dough, and tubs of golden butter piled high.

While they ate, Sarella and Hoster Blackwood, an amiable fellow, though freakishly tall, talked ancient history, of the first men and their ways, of the children of the forest, and even of the others. As for the rest, their men ate quickly and went off in search of whores or willing wenches, which this land did not lack. They bid Jon join them, but he begged off.

I've dishonored one woman, and that's enough, he thought. It shamed him to know he'd fathered a bastard, but Sarella assured him that such were not thought ill of in Dorne. That was a comfort, Jon supposed. Carmyn was a highborn lady, a delight to speak with, fiery and passionate. He refused to lay with her at first, but she commanded it. She instructed him on how to please her, and now the fruit of their love was growing in her belly. Jon was hers now. It was a queer thought. Aye, he and Robb would be fathers within the year. Would their babes ever meet? Mayhaps. His new wife Jynessa was Dornish too.

When they took to the road again, Ghost loped ahead, disturbing many a man they chanced to meet. Horses reared, carts veered, and women clutched their babes and fled before the white direwolf. Most of all, folk whispered, not always kindly.

In inns and taverns as large as holdfasts, at places like Bitterbridge, Longtable, Cider Hall, and Ashford Meadow, Jon heard them speak their calumnies. Much and more had happened in the war he'd missed.

"Did you hear?" one old gossip gossiped.

"I'm sure you'll tell me," said his neighbor.

"Well, they say Domeric Scalp-Taker, that savage, red-handed knight from the wild parts away north, put Stannis on the throne himself. And what was his price for this, I ask you?"

The other man laughed. "I'm sure you'll tell me."

Jon wanted to laugh as well. He knew Domeric Bolton, a kindlier, more open-handed knight he'd never met. Carmyn's gift, the special one just for her, rested with the weirwood carts. Ladies loved those bags beyond reason. Sarella was the envy of every maiden in the common room, drawing maps and scrolls from hers. She had quill and parchment too. Hoster read aloud from her ledger, and she took notes while they waited for supper to be served.

"His price," the gossip continued over a tankard of ale, "was black sacrifice to his heathen gods. Them Northmen worship demon trees. There are worse things than wolves in those dark woods, I warn you. You saw them carts outside? They're the first. Stannis always coveted his brother's throne, they say, and would pay any price to gain it. The Scalp-Taker come down from the mountains with his skinchangers and wargs, them unnatural powers, and suddenly all the gold in Casterly Rock availed the Lannisters not at all. It weren't gold the Northmen wanted, but blood. Seven Save us, they have it. Them trees is queer, I tell you. What manner of natural tree has white bark? Aye, and thirsty, Wat, and no mistake. Mark you, this is not the last load of saplings that passes this way. Might be in a few years, once they grow a little taller, King Stannis will close the septs and make us pray to them, see if he don't."

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Sarella's quill scratched angrily as the man went on, but she made no move to gainsay him. When they crossed the Cockleswent and made for the Prince's Pass, her complaints grew louder.

"Ignorant fools," she sneered to Hoster and Jon and all the rest. "There is power here, something real and old and true. The weirwoods were not always gods of men. They belonged to the children first, the same children who broke the Arm of Dorne with the Hammer of the Waters. What would their return herald? I dreamed of it, Hoster. Dorne will never be the same after we do this."

"After seeing the Great God wake, I'm willing to believe almost anything, Sarella," the tall lad replied quietly.

***

Uller men were waiting for them in the Prince's Pass. At their head was a brown beauty in streaming silks that clung to her body. "Jon!" She rushed into his arms, and they embraced. He could feel every curve of her body pressed against him, including the bump where their babe was growing. Something stirred in his loins when she pressed her mouth to his in a heated kiss. Nothing tasted sweeter than her, nothing.

For a time, they were lost in one another, and the name of paramour seemed not such a dishonorable station. "I've brought you a gift, Carmyn," he choked out when they paused for breath.

"Oho? More than that lovely white wolf you wrote me of? We shall be the envy of all Dorne, but I think we'll need to trim his fur, dear. It gets hot where we're going."

"Already done," Jon answered. "There was a man at the last village, skilled in shearing sheep; we paid him to take off as much of Ghost's coat as he dared, though he left a little, as you can see. It still gets cold at night, right?"

"It does," Carmyn confirmed. Her big brown eyes grew avaricious. "So, about that gift for me..."

With great effort, Jon extricated himself from her embrace and climbed into one of the weirwood carts to retrieve her present. Carmyn squealed louder than he'd ever heard, which was saying something, when she took it from his hands.

"A Bolton Bag in Uller colors!" she gushed. Yellow over crimson it was, cunningly stitched to look like a flickering flame. The lizard lion leather shone in the sun and was supple to the touch.

"Domeric Bolton himself presented it to me. He asks only that you plant one of these saplings in Hellholt's godswood."

"We'll do better than that," she promised. "My uncle, Lord Harman Uller, oft catches brigands trying to hide in the desert. We'll give their blood to the tree, just like you do in the North. That will please your gods, I'm sure."

"It would," Jon admitted. Though the practice was new, it was spreading rapidly. Sarella and Hoster swore by it.

"There are other castles we must visit, my lady," Sarella interjected. "You see, we've brought quite a few."

Carmyn's eyes shone with mirth. "Perfect. I shall join you, I think. A tour of Dorne would be just the thing. Jon can see the sights, while every lady can see Jon is mine, and weep with envy!"