A Small Religious Dispute

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

Also, if you're feeling generous and want to support me, you can find me on P*T*E*N under the same name to read five chapters ahead of Discord.

***

22nd Day of the 5th Moon

Val

The weather had turned warm again after the Cold Shadows were slain. Jon Snow had been different since meeting with his Crow uncle. Truth be told, Val still felt a tad guilty for unwillingly listening in on their talk. Still, she struggled to wrap her head around half the things they mentioned.

It wasn't an obvious thing, but Val could see that his steps had become lighter and his rare laughter - more joyful and genuine. As if a weight that the warg lord had carried had been put down, and he was now unfettered. Even his gait has become more… peaceful.

It had been the second day now, and Val expected the young chieftain to come to her and confront her about listening on, yet no such thing happened, as if he did not know. And every time Ghost passed by, his red eyes had an odd glint when gazing at her.

Jon Snow was sitting still on a rock with his eyes closed like a statue as they gathered around him, waiting silently as the sun peaked through the clouds to the east. Val felt like she was surrounded by a lakeful of twigs and leaves with all the Singers and their tree-like attire. You could rarely see the leafcloaks clustered together - they were always spread out amidst the shrubbery and trees; only at night, those who failed to find a barrow grouped up to share warmth. Dalla threw her a knowing look as Val carefully ran her hand through the dirty, reddish fur of Red Jeyne as the hound eagerly munched on the roasted piece of meat she had offered.

His fancy tent wasn't always guarded by direwolf during the night anymore, but there was at least a hound or two, usually the one Val was petting or the dark-furred Helicent.

"Craster has a son," Jon opened his glimmering grey eyes. "He left the babe out in the cold atop a crude altar hewn in stone."

"Kinslayer," Jarod Snow mumbled.

"Aye," the young chieftain agreed. "Though, I don't think the Others are coming to take the babe."

"Well, you did kill them," Leaf pointed out. "I don't think any more will be coming anytime soon."

"Indeed," Jon Snow grimaced, "the scouts and my wolves have not found anyone in the surroundings."

"What now?" Duncan scratched his ear quizzically.

"Now? Ghost and his pack are dragging Craster here to be strung up."

"And what of the babe?"

Val couldn't help but snort inwardly. Gods, the young Liddle seemed to be such a bleeding heart - caring for a little monster cursed by the gods.

"One of the direwolves left him in front of the hall for the women to pick it up," Jon explained, and Dalla spat dismissively on the ground.

"Nineteen wives," Duncan shook his head.

"Most of them daughters, and probably granddaughters too," Jarod pointed out.

"Regardless," the young Liddle sighed, "What shall happen to them without Craster?"

"It doesn't matter," Val hissed out. "They willingly gave away their sons. They are no better than the sick old fuck they lay with."

"Aye," Dalla agreed. "A man can own a woman, or he can own a knife. No man can own both. With nineteen of them, they could have easily killed Craster in his sleep if they wanted to or simply ran away, but they stayed."

Duncan still looked hesitant, "But-"

"Think, nephew mine," Jarod interrupted. "Nineteen women used to having a roof over their head and every meal secured. Do you think they'll expect any less?"

"The world is full of people that want for help," Leaf chimed in. "But more oft than not, they're cravens - unwilling to grab their fate with their own two hands. Would that some find the courage to help themselves first."

"Do not concern yourself with them," Jon's voice was as cold as ice. "We have an abundance of woes and challenges without adding to them. Craster's wives have made their bed, and they'll lay in it now."

"Besides, I doubt most of them have ever walked past that dyke of his," Val pointed out. "They've all gone plump and soft like pigs and wouldn't be able to walk two leagues before getting tired."

There was still some reluctance left in his gaze, but Duncan seemed to let it go.

"What will we do next, then?"

"Off to Mance Rayder's army."

"With him dead, it will be hard to make all the factions in his camp listen if they even remain there," Jarod straightened up.

"News from the south travels slowly here in the North," Dalla said, and the southrons bristled for some reason.

"Aye, and half the free folk have feuds running back generations - without Mance Rayder to bring them together, they will begin fighting each other sooner or later," Val agreed.

"Regardless, I mean to try," Jon's voice was impassive. "As long as some listen, I'll count myself successful."

"The free folk are not only stubborn but distrustful of kneelers," she pointed out. "It will be a tall task even."

"Mayhaps some can put aside their pride and take heed. Hope is not so easily turned down at a dire hour," Jon's grey eyes glimmered as if he was remembering something. He then whipped his head to the southwest. "Craster will join us shortly. A pity there's no heart tree nearby."

"I can carve a face on that weirwood for the gods to bear witness to his death," Leaf offered a black dagger in her clawed grasp.

"Aye, do it."

The Singer hopped to the nearby weirwood with a spring to her step. With a single motion, she pricked her palm, colouring the tip of the stone knife dark red before driving it into the pale bark with a single graceful movement, slow and steady. The calming scent of pine was suddenly replaced with heavy sweetness.

Just as Leaf began to work on the tree, curses, grunts, and cries of pain heralded the arrival of Craster. Dragged in by Ghost and another slightly smaller brown direwolf, the infamous man looked far less impressive than Val imagined, not only because he was caked in mud. Greying, rather sturdy with broad shoulders and an ugly face twisted into an agonised snarl, with his right elbow bent at an odd angle, the man looked… more pathetic than anything else. The direwolves brought him before Jon before finally letting go of his ankles as if they were obedient hounds.

"Fuckin' warg," Crasted grunted in pain as he stared venomously at them. "I'm, argh, a godly man!"

"A godly man?" Jon snorted and looked at Leaf, who had just finished carving a smiling face atop the pale bark. "I suppose you'll get to meet the gods soon enough."

"Fuck your false gods, accursed kneeler," Craster spat. "Killing me will anger the cold gods!"

Val glared in outrage, and she was far from the only one. Did this old fuck truly worship the Others?!

"Good," the warg lord's face blossomed into a wide smile that had a hint of something wild in his eyes. "Let them come."

***

23rd Day of the 5th Moon

The Cold Ones did not show up to avenge him despite what Craster seemed to think.

The sun's warm rays had turned the ground to muddy slush again, much to her chagrin. Even as the day dwindled, the warmth lingered on.

Val reflected that there was possibly such a thing as too much warmth. Cold, frozen ground and snow were preferable to the dirty mess that clung to her worn leather boots and forced her to step on roots and stones, and even the garrons moved slower in the mud.

Still, she couldn't complain too much - everyone was friendly, helpful, and reasonable, and in the rare instance when she had no time to hunt, fish, or forage, those who did have time shared what they caught. A bowl of stew from the brass cauldron or a skewer of roast was always guaranteed in the evening. In turn, when Val did catch more, she shared. Even in the village, there had never been such an abundance of food - the hunters kept most of what they caught for their kith and kin.

Even sleep at night came easy - there was a strong sense of safety in the camp. Who'd not only dare but succeed in sneaking upon singers and direwolves?! There were no squabbles over the smallest of things, no tension, posturing or arguing over meagre possessions, and everyone worked in almost seamless harmony.

And the reason for all of it was Jon Snow. Each word that left his mouth weighed like a mountain, and he could radiate calmness and surety and somehow make any problems go away the moment they appeared. Who could seemingly gauge your strength and capability with little more than a glance that saw right through you.

The evening neared, and they had to set camp for the night; Val went to fetch some water from the nearby spring while Dalla was setting their tent. She hadn't just yet asked Jon Snow for some mock fights as planned. Last evening, when he sparred with Duncan and Jarod, she got tongue-tied, and her legs felt heavy when she wanted to approach and had just settled for watching.

"You want to steal him," Leaf's high, melodic voice made her spin around, steel dragger drawn.

The spearwife squinted her eyes at the Singer sitting on a branch above her and rocking her legs, yet the face of the short deer-furred being was unreadable.

"What's it to you?" Val's voice came sharper than she intended.

Leaf leapt down on the roots yet produced no sound when she landed like a cat. "I can give you some advice and a warning if you wish."

"Why?"

"It looks like you might need it," the leafcloak shrugged. "Jon Snow has my loyalty, and I think you might be good for him."

"Fine," she agreed sceptically, returned the dagger to its sheath and crossed her arms as she gazed down on the Singer. "How exactly do you think I would be good for him?"

"You might have noticed, but Jon Snow has no fear of death."

"How so?" Val hummed. "What he does might look reckless, but he's more capable than normal men and knows his boundaries."

"That is true. But I've seen him fight before, and Jon Snow has no fear of death."

The spearwife tugged on one of her honeyed locks and gazed at the leafcloak. "Are you sure you're not mistaken for valiance and battle fervour?"

"I have lived a long, long life and seen many winters, Val," Leaf's voice was as dry as decaying leaves. "I've seen many a man who lived for the fight or the hunt, but he is not one of them. Jon Snow fights like every battle is his last, and death is just an old friend to be welcomed. The only reason he's still hale and hearty is his prodigious skill at arms and the blessing of the Gods."

"Let's say you speak true," her voice was sceptical, but the spearwife cared little, "How would I help him?"

"There's great sorrow hiding within Jon Snow," the Singer sighed heavily. "As if his heart is bound by ice that can only be melted by a woman's touch. There's greatness in him, and should you succeed, being together will not be easy."

"Hurdles scare me not," Val returned with a dismissive snort. "Nothing worth in life is easy!"

"Oh, I know," Leaf smiled sadly. "But, will you be willing to follow Jon Snow through thick and thin?"

"Aye!"

"Truly? Even if he eventually returns to the South, will you follow him and be a kneeler's wife? For all his prowess, Jon Snow is what you would derisively call a kneeler." Val wrinkled her nose at those words, and a sad sigh tore out of the leafcloak. "I thought so."

The spearwife closed her eyes and pinched her nose. "Why would he go back?"

"Isn't it only normal to long to return to one's home?" Leaf's golden eyes shimmered sadly. "Kith and kin bind him stronger than any chains ever could."

Val blinked at those words; it was an odd statement she couldn't truly understand. Now that she had left Greystone village, she had no desire to return. But reuniting with your kin - that she could acknowledge. But Jon Snow was not with his kin - he was here, far away from them.

"If I steal him, he's going to be mine," Val stated far more confidently than she felt. "We can make a new family."

The deer-like child laughed deeply, the sound akin to tinkling bells. "Gods, there's no need to lie to yourself; the only way to steal him would be if he lets you. No, even as Snow, the blood of the Ancient Kings of Winter runs strong in his veins, and it would not be denied. Wed Jon Snow, and you'd be part of the wolf pack, whether you want it or not."

Not every stealing led to a wedding - vows before the gods were a finality many did not dare risk.

"So what? What you speak might never come true. You can't know the future."

"Indeed, I can't, for I'm not blessed with the sight," Leaf agreed with a sigh. "But I don't need to see the future to know where the road you tread goes."

"I don't-"

"Listen," the Singer interrupted with a raised hand, claws sharp. "I'm not warning you to stay away from Jon Snow, far from it," she sighed again. "But it will not be easy if you want to be with him. There will be many trials along the way, testing your will, resolve, and love. A young hero, a highlord's son, with a wildling maiden might sound like a story for the ages, but the world is harsh and unforgiving, not a song."

"Was this your warning?" Val asked evenly, trying to hide her annoyance from the tiring riddles.

"It was. I don't mind if you get together with our chieftain. Jon is the kind of man that will pluck the stars from the night sky for his kin, should they ask," Leaf smiled widely, showing a mouthful of sharp teeth. "But beware - break Jon Snow's heart, and I shall hunt you down myself, offer your innards to the gods and devour your heart raw."

The spearwife grabbed her dagger's handle and hissed, "You can try!"

Despite being more than two heads shorter, Leaf did not seem intimidated.

"You've nothing to fear from me as long as you don't hurt Jon Snow," her voice was as calm as a frozen lake. "In fact, I shall be your greatest aide as long as you stand by his side."

"I'm not treacherous, unlike the crows and the southrons," Val snorted.

"Words are wind," the Singer shook her head. "North or south of the Wall, you humans are all alike, even if you want to pretend otherwise. I've given you my warning already. Do you want my advice?"

Val was tempted to tell the little deer-like creature to sod off, but something held her tongue. She grudgingly unclenched her jaw, "Fine."

"Helicent likes roasted hare the most, and Ghost loves it when you scratch behind his left ear."

Just like that, Leaf disappeared, leaving the stunned spearwife behind. Val took a few heartbeats to gather her bearing - she couldn't sense any deception in the Singer's final words. Worse, Leaf was so quick and quiet that if she wanted Val dead, the spearwife would be bleeding out on the snow before she could blink.

A shuddering breath escaped her lips, and she swallowed heavily; the whole talk had been nerve-wracking. But it awoke something in Val - did the foolish little leafcloak think her some faithless and meek southron?

No, she was a proud and fierce spearwife with no fear of adversity. Odd, cryptic riddles, hints and threats would not stop her; Jon Snow would be hers soon enough.

Val filled the waterskins up and set a few traps around the creek, hoping to have a catch by the morn. It was a slow, arduous process that made the anger from talking with the leafcloak bleed out of her. She even found a few stalks of mugwort, woodruff, and nettles for cooking and Dalla's collection of herbs.

The sun was beginning to hide behind the Frostfangs to the west when Val finally returned to the camp.

Amidst a small clearing, Jon Snow, wooden stick in hand, was fighting against Jarod and Duncan, who attacked together with tipless spears. Val could see a dozen leafcloaks sitting on stones and branches, watching on with interest. The nephew and uncle duo were quick on their feet, their movements precise, relentless, and vigorous.

They were well coordinated, attack and defence in tandem, yet still had trouble fending off the warg lord's swift attacks. Jon Snow weaved around the savage staves almost effortlessly and swatted away those who came too close with his blade. Both of them were outstanding fighters - Val could begrudgingly admit that she couldn't best either of them in the open.

She couldn't help but wonder why they had abandoned their swords in favour of spears, but the reason came to her quickly enough. The black stone, obsidian, was too brittle for something like a sword and could only be used as daggers, spears or arrow tips. Like a children's fight, although much more severe and brutal, Jon Snow played the role of a Cold Shadow while Duncan and Jarod attempted to defeat him.

Still, even while holding back, the young chieftain was stronger and quicker, eventually overwhelming the duo. The mock fights were repeated a few times with the same result, although Jon did receive a few glancing blows at the end.

"Gods, the lords from Starfall to Last Hearth would scramble to recruit you as their master-at-arms if they knew of your skill," Jarod grunted, gasping for breath while he rubbed his forearm, where the wooden sword had smacked just now.

"Come now, uncle, is old age finally catching up to you to whinge like this?" Duncan snorted in amusement between his heavy heaving. "Barely half an hour of sparring is hardly that harsh."

"Ah, we'll see what song you'll sing when you reach my age, and you not only tire faster, but your bruises ache not only harder but for longer too," the greybeard muttered.

They walked away from the small clearing and headed towards their tent, making Val realise she had spent the whole time watching again. Even though it was not a real fight, the savage dance had been so mesmerising that the spearwife had failed to tear her eyes away from it, let alone deign to join.

A hand patted Val on the shoulder, and she spun, only to see Dalla looking at her with amusement.

"I'll take these," her sister grabbed the pouch filled with herbs. "Don't be shy now - go and ask the warg lord to show you some moves."

"But they finished already," Val's protest sounded weak even as it left her mouth.

"Our chieftain looks far from winded," Dalla observed. "Come now, he wouldn't refuse to… what did they call it again? Ah yes, spar with you."

After a short moment of hesitation, Val realised her sister was correct - the warg lord did not seem tired. In fact, he was looking in her direction right now.

She stepped forth into the clearing slowly, although her gut felt like a tangled knot of nerves.

"Lord Snow," her tongue felt oddly numb as an odd gleam appeared in his eyes. "I want to fight you too."

He slowly nodded as his gaze impassively roamed over her. "Spear or sword?"

There was the slightest tinge of desire in his grey eyes, but it was so fleeting that Val might have imagined it. No, his gaze was more akin to a warrior looking at his foe or a wolf looking at its prey.

A smile appeared on her lips - Jon Snow was not taking her for some helpless southron maiden, but a proper spearwife.

"Spear."

***

26th Day of the 5th Moon

Eddard Stark, Winterfell

Winterfell had never been fuller.

But then again, it has been over three centuries since it hosted a royal wedding. The wedding itself was to be tomorrow - yet the air was already festive, filled with laughter and merriment; the remaining bards were singing with almost unmatched fervour.

The yearly harvest feast paled in comparison to the overflowing Great Hall. Ned couldn't remember when all of his bannermen were present at the same time in here - big and small, they all came and brought large entourages. Even the quarrelsome Skagosi had come just yesterday, and it wasn't the usual messenger to deliver the taxes, but Crowls, Magnars, and Stanes, which were closer to the mountain chieftains in bearing than the northern lords, had come here, with kith and kin.

The eight long rows of trestle tables were filled to the brim. Ned was glad for his decision to go along with the wedding as quickly as possible - there would simply have been no more space inside for any additional Southron nobility. Even now, some of the younger and less important squires were seated outside, under the clear skies. Five hundred seats in his Great Hall were all filled.

Even the Guest House couldn't house all the arrivals - they had to open tower quarters to handle the excess visitors.

Ever since the royal family had arrived, his time for sparring and tutoring Robb had thinned greatly, but he still managed to find time once or twice a sennight away from prying eyes.

Not to mention that Winterfell's larders were thinning out at an alarming speed. But the wedding was tomorrow, and the royal party, along with him and the other guests, would depart the following day. Thankfully, it was still summer, harvests were bountiful, and the herds of cattle were abundant- while hard, preparing for the coming winter would be possible.

Ned's gaze roamed the merriment that had taken over the hall - everything looked joyful and peaceful. Even Robb and Myrcella, both too young and innocent, faces were flush with excitement and happiness despite the tinge of nervousness that their demeanour betrayed. It seemed it would not be a cold marriage, one less weight off his shoulders.

Ned closed his eyes, would be that the summer would last forever, together with everlasting peace.

A sigh tore out of his mouth; Eddard Stark knew better. The Starks knew better.

No peace lasted forever, and sooner or later, winter would come, as it always did.

Barely six and ten, Robb was considered by all rights an adult. Ned couldn't be more proud of his firstborn: sharp of wit, quick on his feet, with a strong sword arm, and about to be wedded to a beautiful princess.

Yet there was reluctance in his heart. Robb was good, but he was not ready yet. There was more that he could learn, more experience that he could gain, but there was not enough time…

Catelyn squeezed his arm in reassurance beneath the table, and Ned gave her a slight smile as he found himself relaxing. After all, worrying overmuch would achieve nothing.

For once, Robert seemed eager to finish dinner early, if only to meet the day of the wedding faster.

However, Ned couldn't yet afford to rest in his feathered bed. There were matters of import that suffered no delays to be discussed, especially now that all of his bannermen were here, under his roof.

While everyone slowly began to pour out of the Great Hall, heading to their quarters for the night, he signalled Robb to follow him in the gallery behind.

"Tomorrow is going to be a long day. Shouldn't we go to sleep, Father?"

"You have the right of it, Robb. This shouldn't take too long; just stay by my side, listen and observe.

The Lords, heirs, and Chieftains of the North, House Stark's principal bannermen, slowly trickled in groups of twos and threes. To Ned's amusement, Wyman Manderly turned out too fat to ride a horse, and a wheelhouse wouldn't ever reach in time, so his eldest, Wylis, was here representing the merman lord.

"I'll be brief," Eddard spoke up as soon as everyone had gathered. "As part of the dowry for the Princess, the New Gift has been returned to House Stark."

His message was received with satisfied and intrigued murmurs. Roose Bolton was even gazing at him with his pallid pale eyes as if he was seeing him for the first time. He'd love to chop the Leech Lord's head off, but Roose was a cunning man and would not give him undue reason. Ned had, however, decided to keep the part about the tax reduction to himself. Most of the excess would go to bolster the Watch and the new Houses anyway, and as for the rest - House Stark could use some additional coin to add to its coffers for a cold day.

"And what of our former lands?" Greatjon's loud voice rumbled through the gallery; the Giant of Last Hearth towered at least a head over the rest of Ned's bannermen. But not for long, especially if Walder accepted the honours.

"They will be restored to their original boundaries."

The gallery erupted into cheers. With this, House Ironsmith would once again rise into prominence, the Umbers would once more be able to compete with House Dustin in power, and the Irondam and Claycreek clans would receive a substantial amount of land, lining them up among the more powerful chieftains in the northern mountains.

"And what of the lands of the now-extinct Houses like Ashwood and Lightfoot?" Lord Beron Dustin asked once the commotion died off.

Ah, the houses that had died off for Alysanne Targaryen had given away all their land.

"They shall be split into three fiefs," Ned straightened up. "House Cassel shall be elevated into a landed masterly House, along with Walder, while the last fief shall remain under the stewardship of House Stark for now."

The gallery took the news as well as expected - some grumbling, some unhappiness, some joy and surprise. Doubtlessly, now the second and third sons of the North would soon aim to prove themselves one way or another - in a bid to earn land, even as a masterly house. Or, well, plan to match up one of their daughters with the newly landed nobility. After all - marrying the head or heir of a masterly house was still better than the landless second or third sons.

Robb stiffened next to him, and at that moment, the Lord of Winterfell realised his mistake. For all his effort to prepare and educate his heir, he had failed to bring him up to speed on current affairs. Though his son barely showed any surprise, it was odd to see his laughing eyes and easy smile be replaced with the 'frozen face of House Stark' as Robert loved calling it.

Important yet uncomfortable truths Ned had delayed too long had to be spoken, both to his heir and wife. But not yet; Ned still didn't feel ready. Let Robb take his joy in tomorrow's celebration with a clear head for now.

"One last thing before we return to our feathery beds," Ned grew solemn. "Mance Rayder might have been dead, but the trouble from Beyond the Wall is not over. The wildlings are gathered in large numbers and might attempt to attack even without him. All the clansmen and the northmost Houses should keep regular patrols and prepare themselves in case the wildlings succeed in passing the Wall en mass."

"We'll crush the savage fucks if they dare to show their mangy faces," Greatjon roared boisterously, making Ned sigh inwardly. The fact that half the lords grunted or laughed in agreement did not help.

Although they were not particularly wrong, wildlings could easily be swept away by heavy horse in the open field. Besides, discipline beat numbers nine out of ten.

"Aye, but desperate foes are not to be underestimated," he reminded them. "That's beside the point - I have received whispers of odd… things stirring Beyond the Wall again."

"Bah, old wives tales," Edmund Flint, the Lord of Flint's Fingers, grunted dismissively.

"Foul things happen beyond the Wall," Lord Svennar Stane coughed. "Our fisherfolk claim to have glimpsed the white walkers north of Eastwatch."

"Never thought I'd agree with a Stane, but chieftain Svennar has the right o' it," Greatjon also looked severe and grim. "Things feel wrong lately."

The northmost bannermen looked quite worried, while the rest - sceptical at best. Ned sighed inwardly; this was sadly within his expectations. Robb shuffled uneasily next to him.

"Are you sure that's not just your shitty ale muddling your wits?"

It was Galbart Glover trying to jibe Umber again.

"Listen here, you-"

"ENOUGH!" The gallery grew silent at his cry. "It might be an old wives' tale or a real danger to be fought against. It matters little. The Watch has waned too much to deal with anything alone. The king has given me permission to reform the Night's Watch, and even without that, the North will not be caught unprepared, even if I'm still in the South. Here's what the North shall do-"