[Chapter Size: 5200 Words.]

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Third Person POV

Somewhere beyond the Wall, 292 AC, One week later.

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During the week that followed, Jon was extremely busy, dividing his time between intensive training and assisting in the ongoing development of Ártica. In the mornings, he dedicated himself to honing his combat skills, strategy, and leadership under the guidance of Brynden and other green-seer masters. Jon not only trained with the sword but also practiced war tactics, learning to command and motivate his troops, a routine they have maintained since it began 2 years ago.

In the afternoons, Jon visited different parts of Ártica, inspecting the buildings, talking with the workers, and listening to the needs of his people. He was directly involved in the planning and execution of projects, from expanding agricultural areas to improving defense and housing infrastructures.

Jon also spent significant time with the Children of the Forest, helping to strengthen the grove of weirwoods around the great tree. At night, he dedicated himself to study and planning. Surrounded by maps, reports, and advice from his most trusted advisors, Jon outlined strategies for the future of Ártica and the imminent expedition beyond its borders. He also spent time alone, not entirely, because Ghost and Eragon were always present.

Throughout the week that preceded his departure, Jon was immersed in the meticulous preparation of his troops, a diverse contingent that reflected the uniqueness of Ártica. Each morning, he joined the 1500 humans, 500 dwarves, and 500 giants in the training field, where his presence inspired and motivated. Under the watchful eyes of Ducken and Thor, the soldiers practiced complex maneuvers, simulated combat, and honed their fighting skills. Jon, with a sword in hand, led by example, demonstrating leadership techniques he had learned not only from Ducken but from Brynden’s visions and his own experiences.

Today Jon positioned himself in front of his 2500 soldiers, an imposing sight in the vast training area of Ártica, where the sound of steel against steel echoed with the troops’ incessant practice. The place was bustling with activity, each soldier moving with determination and precision. The area was meticulously organized, divided into sections for melee combat training, archery, and battle strategy.

The soldiers were impeccably equipped with EldenMetal armor, shimmering under the sun with a silvery glow. Each piece of armor was a work of art, forged by the skilled dwarves of Ártica, designed not just to protect but also to allow agility and fluid movement. The armors were complemented by helmets, shields, and weapons also made of EldenMetal, each inscribed with symbols representing the strength and unity of Ártica.

The giants, imposing and robust, stood above all, their armor specially designed to accommodate their enormous bodies. They carried massive clubs and axes, each blow capable of knocking down a dozen enemies. The dwarves, in turn, moved with surprising dexterity, their weapons and armor reflecting their pride and skill in the forge.

Jon observed all this with an attentive eye and a heart heavy with the responsibility he carried. He knew that each person before him had chosen to follow him, trusting him to lead them to safety and victory. He walked slowly through the area, making eye contact with as many as he could, conveying his confidence and gratitude for their loyalty and courage.

When it was time to speak, Jon climbed onto a small improvised platform, ensuring that his voice reached everyone present. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the EldenMetal on his shoulders and the future of Ártica in his hands.

Jon raised his voice, which echoed strong and clear across the training field:

“Fellow citizens of Ártica, my people, my nation, warriors of the true North! Our nation flourishes, becoming a bastion of strength and hope in lands once cold and desolate. But as we rejoice in the warmth of our prosperity, we cannot, we must not, forget those who still suffer under the yoke of the relentless winter and the threatening shadows of the White Walkers.”

He paused, allowing his words to penetrate the heart of each listener. “We are not of cowardly nature nor of spirits that surrender. Those suffering beyond our lands are our brothers and sisters, facing a common enemy in a world that seldom shows mercy. We were like them once, battling the biting cold, the devastating hunger, and death lurking around every corner. The time has come, the time to extend our hand, to be the beacon of light that guides the way to a better future.”

Jon raised a clenched fist in determination. “We will show the White Walkers and all who doubt our strength who truly rules the North! While the kneelers of the south hide behind their walls and schemes, it will be us, the people of Ártica, who face and destroy the darkness threatening to swallow the world. Not because we are wild or because we were born on the other side of the Wall. No! But because we are the most powerful people this world has ever seen!”

A roar of approval and determination grew among the troops, a sound that seemed to shake the very earth beneath their feet. “Prepare yourselves, brave ones of Ártica,” Jon concluded with a voice that promised victory and glory. “Our path will not be easy, but together, as a united and indomitable force, we will change the course of history. For the North, for Ártica, we march!”

The thunder of war cries, “RUUUUH RUUUUHU RUUUUH!” from the 2500 soldiers and the howling of 200 wolves filled the air, resonating with a force that vibrated in the chest of each present. Jon, atop Ghost, his 2.6-meter wolf, dressed in armor fit for a king, felt a wave of satisfaction. Eragon, though small, expressed his excitement with sharp cries, sharing the fervor of the moment.

“FORWARD NOW SOLDIERS!” Jon commanded. His army began to move, but not before hearing the roars and applause of the nation. Jon always cultivated the philosophy of making his people believe they were the strongest in the world, a belief he himself embraced as truth. He saw in his people and in himself the most powerful force in the world.

Jon had meticulously organized an army that was the backbone of Ártica, a well-structured and disciplined force, reflecting the order and efficiency he desired. At the top, generals of each race – humans, dwarves, giants, and Children of the Forest – ensured unity and communication among the diverse factions of his varied army.

For every group of 500 soldiers, an Artirian commander was designated, leading what Jon called an “artirion.” These commanders were the direct link between high-level strategy and the soldiers in the field, responsible for executing orders and adapting them to the circumstances of the battlefield.

Within each artirion, the structure became even more granular, with a leader for every 100 men – the squad leaders. These leaders were Jon’s eyes and ears on the ground, ensuring that each soldier knew their role and was ready to act quickly and effectively.

Jon instituted this system to ensure that commands were quick and clear, avoiding the chaos that could arise from a slow, centralized voice. With leaders at every level, the army of Ártica could promptly respond to any situation, whether a planned battle or an unexpected surprise attack. The efficiency of this system had already been proven in smaller battles, and Jon trusted it would be the key to the strength and survival of his kingdom in the fights to come.

This army, specialized in fighting White Walkers, had already proven its strength and efficacy. Jon had trained each soldier specifically to face this ancient and deadly threat. The last White Walker who dared enter his territory never returned, and since then, no other wight dared approach. They were more than an army; they were a symbol of strength, determination, and the unwavering power of Ártica.

“It’s time to go.” Jon commented, and Ducken at his side looked at him with a nod. Ducken would not participate in this excursion; he is the best general of Ártica, and leaving him in the realm was the best option should an emergency arise from an attack, be it from the free folk or the dead, Ártica needed someone to command its forces.

“Good luck, Jon, stay safe. Otherwise, I’ll never forgive you,” Ducken spoke in a serious tone.

“Don’t worry, you too. Protect Artica while I’m away.” With that, Jon mounted his wolf.

Ghost carried Jon with pride, both in armor displaying black and red colors with designs of Ghost and Eragon. Even with the paint, a greenish hue was visible underneath, a reminder of the power Jon shared with his creatures, and his armor gave him a status of leadership.

As the army of Ártica prepared to march south, the atmosphere was charged with discipline as everyone began to march with the leadership of Jon and others. There were 2,500 soldiers aligned in impeccable formation, a vision of power and discipline that reflected Jon’s meticulousness and planning. Each soldier, adorned with shimmering EldenMetal armors, bore the weight of their protection as a badge of honor and duty.

At the front, Jon rode Ghost, the gigantic wolf of more than 2.5 meters, an imposing sight that commanded respect and admiration. Beside him, a pack of 200 Giant wolves, each about 2 meters tall, marched with a fierce grace that could only be found in the creatures of the true north.

As they advanced, they carried not only armor and weapons but also essential supplies – food, clothes, alcohol, and cigars – ensuring they would be prepared for any eventuality. Thus, with the supply wagons and the army itself, they left the Artican lands.

Three days after the start of the march, the army of Ártica, composed of 2,500 men determined to head south, had no immediate plans for recruitment or visits to tribes but were ready for diplomacy should they encounter any group along the way.

As they advanced, they began to encounter remaining peoples to the south. One tribe in particular, near the path of the army, watched with a mix of fear and admiration as the imposing march approached. The shining armors, sharp weapons, and the load of supplies, including food, clothes, alcohol, and cigars, were an impressive sight for those accustomed to a simpler and harsher life. The initial caution of the tribe gave way to curiosity, and, motivated by the non-hostile approach of the army, they decided to approach.

At the center of this formidable force was Jon, an 11-year-old boy whose presence atop Ghost, his giant wolf, commanded the attention and respect of all. Ghost, surprisingly tall even for his species, and everyone knew it at first glance, stood at 2.6 meters, a stature that made him appear a mythical creature.

Jon’s authority was unquestionable to anyone who looked at him, even being a child, different from 2 years ago, he had a much more authoritative aura than before, a result of his 2 years of training and his potions, where he commanded not only by his status as king but by the confidence and ability with which he led. His encounter with the local tribe was marked by calm and an offer of peace, demonstrating that although they were prepared for battle, their greater goal was to establish alliances and offer a new path for those who wished to join the thriving nation of Ártica.

The leader of the unknown group looked at Jon with a cautious gaze, his expression mixing curiosity and suspicion. “Are you Mance? I thought you were older. Are you planning to attack the Wall?” he asked, trying to unravel the young figure before him. Jon, whose posture and gaze no longer reflected the innocence of a boy but the determination of a king, remained unshaken, confidence emanating from him like a cloak, a wisdom beyond his years, acquired from the visions of ancient kings.

Jon smiled, a smile that not only disarmed the tension but also infused a sense of camaraderie among his men. “Hear that, boys? They think I’m Mance!” The laughter that followed from his soldiers, especially from the nearby dwarves. The visiting group, in turn, was visibly uncomfortable and confused by the exchange and the mockery from this group, particularly by that bunch of small men clad in armor and looking at the free folk as if they had found prey.

Wishing to formally introduce his people, Jon raised his voice, commanding everyone’s attention. “My people, why don’t you introduce yourselves to our visitors?” he shouted. The response was instant and thunderous. “WE ARE ÁRTICA!” echoed the voice of 2500 soldiers, accompanied by the metallic sound of shields being struck. The display of strength and unity left the visiting group shrunken, wide-eyed, deeply impressed, and perhaps a bit intimidated, as they had never seen anything like it in these lands.

Jon, maintaining his calm and authoritative posture, responded to the leader of the unknown group. “No, we do not intend to attack the Wall. They have given us no reason for such action,” he said calmly. The leader observed him, clearly perplexed and intrigued by the response.

“You’re not going to attack? Then, how do you intend to protect yourselves from the darkness that is consuming the North?” the man insisted, seeking to understand the logic behind the thoughts of this child. Jon, in turn, fixed his gaze on them, the confidence in his voice and posture unwavering.

“Do you refer to the White Walkers with their blue eyes? Why should we run?” Jon questioned, raising an eyebrow with a mix of challenge and nonchalance. Internally, Jon allowed himself a moment of arrogance, wishing to demonstrate the strength and courage his nation possessed.

Jon, facing the uncomfortable silence, took the word confidently. “Let me ask my people,” he said, turning to his soldiers. With a voice that resonated with authority and expectation, he shouted: “ÁRTICA, WHAT ARE WE?”

The answer came in a deafening roar: “WE ARE NORTHERN!” The soldiers of Ártica replied with a fervor that echoed through the air.

Jon, not satisfied, shouted again, seeking to reaffirm the identity and strength of his people. “ÁRTICA, WHAT ARE WE?” And the answer came loud and clear: “WE ARE DESCENDANTS OF THE FIRST MEN!”

For the third time, Jon challenged his men, “ÁRTICA, WHAT ARE WE?” and they responded with an equally powerful roar: “WE ARE THE MOST POWERFUL PEOPLE!”

Changing the question, Jon tested the courage of his people: “ÁRTICA, WHAT DO WE FEAR?” And, proudly, he heard the answer: “WE FEAR NOTHING, BUT THE WRATH OF OUR GODS!” The religiosity and respect for the old gods were evident in the fervent response.

Finally, Jon addressed the issue of the White Walkers: “ÁRTICA, WHAT DO WE DO WITH WHITE WALKERS?” The answer came with a ferocity that left the visiting group stunned: “WE DON’T RUN! WE KILL THEM, WE EXTERMINATE THEM, THEY ARE THE ONES WHO FEAR US!”

Jon smiled broadly, proud of his people and the war cry they had rehearsed. They were prepared, trained to face numerous enemies and win. Discipline and courage were their greatest weapons. The men of the tribe, faced with this demonstration of strength and unity, were visibly shocked. They had grown up hearing horror stories about the darkness that killed everything in its path, but here were the soldiers of Ártica, ready and willing to face the most feared evil of the North. The scene before them, with an army dressed in never-before-seen armor, accompanied by giants and a great number of small men with other northerners, and led by a child who emanated authority, would forever change the way they saw the world.

“Who-Who are you!?” They couldn’t help but exclaim with fear in their eyes.

“I am the King of Ártica, known as Jon Artica!” Jon had changed his name by the counsel of Brynden a year ago. He was no longer a Stark bastard from the south; he then took the name of his nation, as this name would be perfect for the royal family. Jon continued as he looked at the group of free people.

“We are looking for groups seeking shelter in our nation. My people are protected, they do not suffer from hunger or cold; the only thing they need is to work for Ártica and respect its laws in exchange for all that the nation can offer,” he said calmly. He didn’t know what to say, however, the freefolks are always sensitive about kings, and one of them said.

“We are not kneelers!” As expected, one of them exclaimed. Jon smiled at this, already having a clear answer for this situation, then he turned to his army again and shouted.

Jon raised his voice, making a rhetorical question that reverberated with strength and conviction: “DOES THE PEOPLE OF ÁRTICA KNEEL?” The expectation hung in the air as he awaited the response.

Then, like a thunderous unison, the soldiers of Ártica responded: “THE PEOPLE OF ÁRTICA ARE NORTHERN, WE ARE FIRM, TOUGH, AND STRONG, WE DO NOT KNEEL TO ANYONE, NOT EVEN TO THE KING; FOR THE KING OF ÁRTICA, RESPECT ALONE SUFFICES!” Their declaration was a testament to the strength and independence that defined their people.

The response left the freefolk group visibly stunned. Shocked expressions spread through the group, and even the air seemed tense with the resonance of the unified shouts.

Jon decided to break the small silence that had settled among them at that moment, as they were still too surprised to speak.

Jon, rising with the dignity of a born leader, spoke to the men who watched him with curious and suspicious eyes. “My brothers,” he began, his voice resonating with authority and calm, “we share the blood of the first men in our veins. We are northerners, and each one of you must make your own decisions. We will not surrender or flee; this is our land, and we will defend it against the creatures with blue eyes.”

His speech was eloquent and clear, leaving a choice for those who listened: “If you wish to join us and submit to the laws of Ártica, you will find shelter and safety in our nation, the strongest in the world. The decision is yours.” With a firm look and a resolute posture, Jon began to move away from the group, but not without leaving a final message. “We have pending matters at the Wall and then we will go west in search of tribes seeking refuge. If you decide to join us, you know where to find us.”

They just watched us leave, never having seen a freefolk speak like this or a group be so proud and coordinated. They began to have hope in their hearts after seeing this demonstration.

“We cannot make a decision now, but we will follow you if necessary,” the leader of the group gave his response, and Jon nodded before continuing the journey.

For three weeks, Jon and his army traversed icy lands, encountering tribes scattered throughout the true North. At each encounter, the scene repeated: the initial amazement of the locals at seeing the orderly march of 2,500 Arctic warriors, all in shimmering eldenMetal armors, accompanied by giants, and led by a boy atop a gigantic wolf. The negotiations, always led by Jon with a mix of firmness and fairness, ended up offering each tribe the same choice: join Ártica, the land where cold and hunger were legends of the past, or maintain their autonomy.

Jon, with his eyes on the sky, had mapped the region with precision that only greenseers could achieve after mapping the area with their birds. He knew every curve of the terrain, every possible hideout, making the journey not only safe but strategic. And now, at the end of the three weeks, they arrived at Hardhome.

Hardhome was a place of despair and desolation, an improvised camp where hope seemed to have long retreated. Tattered tents and smoldering fires dotted the landscape, while hooded figures moved silently among them. The sea incessantly beat against the rocky shore, a constant reminder of the unexplored vastness that stretched beyond them.

The arrival of Jon’s army was like a meteor breaking the gloomy monotony of Hardhome. People emerged from tents and gathered in the dusty streets, watching with penetrating eyes the arrival of these strangers. The Arctic warriors, imposing in their shiny armors, stood firm and silent. Ghost, with his thick fur and penetrating red eyes, moved gracefully with Jon, his presence conveying a serenity that contrasted with the chaos around.

As they advanced, the residents stopped and watched, with fear and admiration, while whispers spread like wildfire. Jon’s giant wolf, Ghost, now known as the biggest wolf many had ever seen, walked with a dignity that reflected his master’s. And Jon, high on his mount, looked at Hardhome not as a conqueror, but as someone who wanted to speak with these people.

As they approached the heart of the camp, the crowd gathered, forming a sea of curious and cautious faces, many fearful of an armed army arriving here. With a wave of his hand, Jon signaled his army to stop, preparing to speak to the people of Hardhome, to offer them the same choice he had offered to so many others: join Ártica and embrace a promising future or remain in the shadow of the White Walkers.

As Jon surveyed the crowd, his eyes met those of an old man, whose wrinkles told stories of many winters. The elder, leaning on a staff, watched Jon with a mix of curiosity and hope. Around him, children peeked out from between the legs of adults, their dirty faces and wide eyes fixed on the giant wolf and the young king it carried. Women held their children a little closer, and men conversed amongst themselves, casting cautious glances toward the newly arrived army.

Jon dismounted from Ghost, a gesture that in itself silenced the crowd. He walked a few steps forward, his eyes sweeping over the crowd, his posture conveying a confidence that seemed to calm the tense air. He extended his hand in a gesture of peace and respect toward the old man who had first observed him. The elder, after a brief hesitation, stepped forward, his staff echoing on the ground as he moved.

“Who are you?” the old man’s voice sounded, carrying a mix of caution and curiosity that reflected the sentiment of the crowd.

“I AM THE KING OF ÁRTICA, KING JON ÁRTICA!” Jon proclaimed again, his voice rising above the growing murmurs. “I WANT TO SPEAK WITH YOUR LEADERS. WE WILL NOT ATTACK YOUR GROUP UNLESS PROVOKED!” His statement, clear and direct, resonated throughout Hardhome.

The elder remained still, his gaze weighing on Jon as the young king spoke. The crowd, which until then had been whispering among themselves, fell into a thoughtful silence upon hearing Jon’s authoritative declaration. The mention of Ártica, a name that resonated with mystery, caused a frisson of curiosity and surprise among the onlookers. The whispers among the tribes transformed into open conversations, each person, each family, each warrior pondering the meaning of Jon’s words.

Jon waited for the people to finish talking and whispering; during this time, the boy saw a man approaching from the crowd. Jon noticed his red hair and his size much larger than his peers, but his eyes were cautious as they pointed to Jon, Ghost by his side, and his army all armed like he had never seen.

The large red-haired man decided to break the silence before Jon, “My name is Tormund, the leader of the tribes of the west, if you are not here to attack us, then why are you here with your army of metal?” he declared, his voice denoting both curiosity and caution. Jon nodded in acknowledgment.

“Pleased to meet you, Tormund, I’m short on time so I’ll be brief. We are from the nation of Ártica, the only nation we recognize in the true north, and we will always open our doors to people who submit to our laws and contribute to our nation’s growth. We offer shelter, food, and warm clothes in the winter, we are welcoming those willing to enter the realm under my conditions, and we will also fight against the cold shadows!” Jon declared.

The man, with an expression of caution etched on his wrinkled face, looked at Jon and his army. “I’ve never heard of such a place,” he murmured, “Do you think you can survive the monsters with blue eyes? Mance is coming south with an army of 60,000.” His tone indicated a mix of distrust and a thread of hope, as Jon and his army of 2500 did not seem like a group that killed freefolks or members of the Night’s Watch.

Jon, hearing the mention of the dreaded White Walkers, allowed a confident smile to spread across his face. He knew the power that Ártica possessed, the strength and courage that ran in the veins of his people.

“HEARD THAT, MY PEOPLE?” Jon shouted, turning to his troops, “HE ASKED IF WE WILL SURVIVE THE BLUE EYES. TELL ME, ÁRTICA, WHAT HAPPENS TO THE MONSTERS WITH BLUE EYES?”

The answer came like thunder, 2500 voices united in a powerful and defiant roar: “WE DO NOT FEAR THEM, THEY FEAR US!” The proclamation reverberated through the air, filling the space with palpable energy.

Tormund, along with everyone in Hardhome, was visibly impressed by the demonstration of strength and unity. The shock and admiration were evident in their eyes. Here was a group that would not run, a people who would rise to fight against the darkness terrorizing the North.

Jon observed the reactions, his heart filled with pride. He knew the challenges would be great, but Ártica was not a nation of cowards. They would face the winter and its horrors head-on, ready to protect their land and their people, no matter the cost. It was this bravery and indomitable spirit that Jon believed would lead Ártica to become a legend and a beacon of hope in the darkest of winters.

A woman with the posture of a warrior stepped forward, curiosity and determination marking her expression as she held a spear. “And are you heading to your country?” she asked, her interest clear in her voice. It was evident that, if there was a group willing to fight, she would join without hesitation.

“No,” Jon replied calmly, “we have some business to resolve at the Wall. We’ll camp for a while and sort out some matters, then we’ll travel through the western region, and from there, we’ll return to Ártica, which is in the southwest of the true north.” His explanation generated murmurs of surprise and curiosity among the onlookers.

“Are you going to meet with the crows?” A man with a grim expression and disdain interrupted, spitting on the ground with evident disgust at the mention of the Night’s Watch. Jon faced him, a mocking smile appearing on his lips.

“Yes, any problem with that?”

“You’re one of them?! Crows kill us all the time, how can you simply say you’re going to meet them?!”

“And you want me to hate the Watch just because you wish it?” He retorted, raising an eyebrow. “I won’t listen to insults from someone like you,” Jon said, maintaining his provocative smile.

“Shut up, kid! You might hide behind your men, but you’d be the first to die in a fight,” the man growled, his anger palpable in his voice.

Without hesitation, Jon stepped forward, gripping his Valyrian steel sword, Dark Sister, surprising all present. His steps were confident, and he began to approach the man, his presence commanding the attention of all 20,000 people in the camp. As he walked, his voice echoed loud and clear:

“ÁRTICA, ARE WE COWARDS?” He shouted, and the response came as a deafening roar from his men:

“NO, WE FACE OUR CHALLENGES HEAD-ON!” The proclamation reverberated through the camp, and Jon continued his march, ready to confront any challenge and prove his people’s worth.

“I will face this man, if anyone else besides this fool attacks, consider this camp condemned!” Jon roared authoritatively, and instantly, his 2500 soldiers assumed attack stances. The threat transformed the camp into a whirlwind of chaos. People ran in panic, fearing that a simple confrontation could lead to their annihilation. The bald man who had challenged Jon was visibly shaken, realizing that his actions might have deadly consequences. With hesitation, but driven by Jon’s challenge, he advanced.

“I hope you don’t regret it, kid!” The man approached with an axe, having no choice but to come closer.

Jon, with the calm that distinguished him even in the face of danger, unsheathed Dark Sister, the precious weapon Brynden had given him. He waited patiently for the man’s approach, and when the attack came, he dodged the bronze axe with a fluid sidestep and advanced. With a single and powerful strike, he cut the opponent in half, demonstrating supernatural strength along with his sharp and magical Valyrian steel blade. The man fell, screaming in his final moments of life, while Jon continued, indifferent to the fate of the one who had challenged him.

Arriving before the paralyzed group, Jon faced them with an indifferent expression and declared: “Let this be a lesson. In Ártica, we face our enemies with courage and determination. Do not seek our wrath.” His voice, though calm, carried a weight that silenced the camp. The looks of fear and respect mingled as everyone absorbed the truth in Jon’s words and the reality of Ártica’s power.

“My business with the crows is my own, and I owe no one an explanation,” Jon continued to declare firmly, his gaze fixed and challenging. “Whether you are alive or dead, on this side of the wall or the other, if you dare threaten my people, you will meet your end. Those who think they can dictate the actions of Ártica, listen well: we forge our own path. If you believe you can challenge us, then come and face our strength!” His voice echoed, laden with an implicit threat and an unwavering promise. No one moved; their gazes mixed with fear, anger, and a palpable curiosity.

Jon returned to his wolf, and at his command, the troops relaxed from the battle formation. They proceeded toward the Wall, leaving behind a camp in a state of shock. The 20,000 people present were still trying to comprehend the origin of that child who commanded such a powerful and disciplined army.

The army’s journey continued for another week, stopping every afternoon in an open area, as Jon avoided the forests, and they set up a no-camp, Jon continued his journey south until he began to see the structure of the Wall in the distance on the horizon.

“Uncle, I’m finally arriving,” Jon thought, a mix of determination and anticipation to see his relatives after years of isolation.

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