CHAPTER 22:

Four years ago.

And it was a good omen, though there were the inevitable storms along the way. There were tensions between the Wildings and the Watch; tensions between the new Watch recruits and the older Watch veterans; tensions between the Wildings and the Southern castaways, and tensions between everyone else and the Skagosi. Jon wondered why his days should be consumed by constant negotiations between the disguntled parties. It had never been among his strengths in his term as Lord Commander, but he acquired some skill at it in the subsequent years because he simply had to.

And he needed that skill more and more, because recruitment in the South went far better than Jon had expected. Nor did he expect the Reach to be one of the better sources. Those recruits told him hair-raising stories of the rapacity of Ser Bronn of the Blackwater (aka Bronn the Sellsword). Jon believed all of it, and wondered why Tyrion allowed the richest Kingdom in the South to be despoiled in that way. Bronn must know a lot of information detrimental to the Lord of Casterly Rock, and be prepared to use it. Jon wished he had that information, but such speculation was idle, he supposed.

Yet information was vital, and Jon felt the need for a Master of Whisperers. In particular, he felt that he needed to know about Ibben, which caused him many sleepless nights. The Ibbenese had begun to harry the ships of the Far North, resenting their competition for their traditional markets. So far, the damage had been minimal, but Jon could see that it would not remain so, especially once the Ibbenese discovered that the Far North had started to build whaling ships, previously the latter's sole perogative. The fact that they used a pirated Ibbenese template wouldn't help

Then there was Bravos. Jon had no illusions there, either; though the Iron Bank was profiting from its trading arrangement with the Far North, if the Ibbenese offered them a better deal, they'd take it. They'd certainly make the Ibbenese pay a premium for defaulting on their previous loan with the Iron Bank, but they'd take it. Business was business, and profit always prevailed. It would mean that the Far North would have to outbid Ibben, lessening profits. Jon didn't like that idea at all.

And the Ibbenese might get there soon, Jon feared. Weighing the odds, he suspected that the Shadow Council would try intimidation of the ships of the Far North first. It was cheaper, and would save face with their electors. He just didn't know where or when.

He was still considering the problem when another shipload of recruits landed at Eastwatch. Jon and Tormund were there to meet them, along with Cotter Pyke (who was representing the the Watch), and Javier and Arley (who were representing the Southron recruits). They were only expecting one ship, but to their surprise, there were three of them. Two ships were loaded with Watch recruits and their families. Cotter Pyke was delighted, and welcomed them warmly. The other ship carried immigrants from the Six Kingdoms, mostly women and children, but with the occasional intact family, which Jon was pleased to note. Javier and Arley welcomed them according to their origins. Then Jon announced that the Watchmen would stay at Eastwatch until they were sorted, and the immigrants would go on by ship to Hardhome.

Tormund stayed at Eastwatch to take care of some business with Pyke; Jon, Javier and Arley boarded the immigrant ship for the trip back to Hardhome. Due to a strong, favouring wind, it looked as though it would not take long, and Jon passed the time by getting to know the new recruits and the immigrants. He had worked his way through several of them, when he encountered someone he had definitely not expected to see.

And there she was, tall and imposing, in a simple grey wool dress, and blue shawl, with glinting eyes and a half-smile, half-smirk on her face. "Well met, Jon Snow," she said.

Jon stared at her. She was perhaps the last person he expected to see, barring the King of the Six Kingdoms, and the Queen of the North. She was certainly the last person he wanted to see, which, considering the competition, was saying something.

"You seem surprised to see me, youngling," she said, crossing her arms. "Didn't you expect us to meet again?"

Jon hesitated. "It's not that," he said. "I knew that we would, of course. Just not so soon."

She laughed. "You mean that you'd forgotten about it."

"No, I didn't. Not at all," Jon said. Though he had tried to, of course. Or begun to hope that she'd forgotten it,

"You've a bargain to fulfill," she said. "Remember?"

"I remember that, yes," Jon said.

"Good," she said with a nod. "I'm glad to hear it. Having second thoughts, are you?"

Jon's chin went up. "No."

"That's good, too, youngling, because it's too late for that. We'll talk about the details later, in Hardhome."

She turned away and disappeared into the crowd.

Jon glanced around, but in the boatload of happy, noisy people, all relieved that their long voyage was over, no one had been paying any attention to their conversation. He was relieved by that; but the encounter, so unexpected, startled him.

Though he searched through the crowd to see where she'd gone, he did not see her anywhere during the rest of the voyage. Jon wondered if she'd been a mirage, but feared that it was too easy a solution to his problem. He'd been born under a bad star, hadn't he? And perhaps his luck would always match it.

There was a welcome feast the next day at Hardhome for the new arrivals, and Jon tried hard to concentrate on that, and not search for her in the crowd. He did see her eventually, though; seated at one of the tables, with a scrawny adolescent girl beside her, dressed in a very similar style. She was talking and gesturing, and the whole table seemed to be listening. Jon closed his eyes briefly, while he wondered what she was saying.

He edged towards the table, trying to not to be too obvious about it. Then he saw that Arley was seated opposite her and he stopped, fading back towards the wall, and eventually out of earshot.

Later he asked Arley what she had said. He shrugged. "She does like the sound of her own voice, that one," was his initial comment. "Why do you ask?" was his second.

"I just thought I recognized her," Jon said. "Though, of course, I might be wrong."

"She's not from the North, from what I can see," Arley said. "Or hear."

"Did she say her name?" Jon asked, as lightly as he could. I never asked her name, and she never mentioned it, either.

"Gytha, I think she said," Arley said, without much interest.

Jon closed his eyes. No mirage, then.

He turned away, and withdrew into the crowd, hoping Gytha had not seen him.

During the next week, Jon avoided the public spaces in Hardhome, in the probably vain hope that Gytha would go away. He did not see her, and gradually began to grow more confident. That confidence lasted until he needed treatment for a cut on his arm, and went to the healers' quarters in the town to get it patched up.

One of the older spearwives had been acting as a healer, and although she had no real training beyond a few folk remedies, she could pour alcohol on wounds, and stitch them up with the best of them. Jon had expected to see her, but it was Gytha who came to the door.

"Ah," she said, "Jon Snow! I thought you'd died and gone to the Seven for all I've seen of you this past week!"

Jon was unmoved. "I'm sure you cared nothing for that," he said dourly.

She crossed her arms. "No, I didn't," she said, without inflection. "I knew we'd meet eventually."

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Gytha said, moving back, "Well, come in, then."

Jon suppressed a sudden impulse to flee for his life, and did as she directed.

The quarters, notable for its slapdash untidiness under the reign of the spearwife, was now spotlessly clean, the floors scrubbed, the walls newly whitewashed, the glass windows washed and sparkling. Shelves had been built against the walls to hold supplies, which were stowed away neatly. There were bottles of various types of medicine, carefully labelled, and lined up in precise rows.

"I brought a full kit with me, as you see," Gytha said.

"What happened to Dorrit?" Jon asked.

"The spearwife? She was persuaded to take up a profession for which she had talent. Healing did not appear to be it."

"Are you living here now, then?" Jon knew that there were living quarters in the back of the building.

"Yes. There is still a way to go - I need proper beds, not pallets, for the wards. I asked Arley, and he agreed to have them built for me. I require some decent linens, and a full-time washerwoman to attend to them. And I require more equipment. I have a list for you here. These are the items that can be purchased in White Harbour. This - " here she produced an even longer list - "is what I need from Braavos. That will do for a start. Later I will ask for things from Essos and the Southern Kingdoms, but not just yet. We'll start slowly. However, we desperately need a properly-trained surgeon, and I suggest you recruit one as soon as possible."

Jon inspected the documents, and his brows rose. "And how are we to afford all this?"

"That's your problem, deal with it. But you need proper medical treatment available if you want Hardhome to become a successful port, don't you? Ask your Braavosi friends to find a surgeon for you, then, if you find it beyond your powers."

"I would," Jon said, not looking up from the list, "if I wanted to be spied on."

Gytha laughed. "Well, I take it back, then - you're not completely stupid. Try elsewhere in Essos, then, and make the request anonymous, at least at first."

Jon nodded, and held out his arm. Gytha inspected it, lips pursed. "Careless of you."

He shrugged. She dealt with the wound in an expeditious manner, and he thanked her, with a certain lack of warmth.

"Pouting still, are you? How very childish."

Jon smiled reluctantly. "As you say."

At this point, the scrawny adolescent girl came in with an armful of clean linen. She did not seem surprised at Jon's presence, nor did she even glance at him. She deposited the linens and left, without a word. Since she kept her head down, Jon could not determine too much about her appearance.

Jon stared after her. "Is that her?" he asked.

"Indeed it is," Gytha said.

"Does she know why she's here?"

"Of course she does."

"She doesn't seem too pleased, I have to say."

"She's not; but she'll do her duty."

"Says you," Jon said.

"Says me, yes." There was hard look in Gytha's eyes. It wasn't easy, then.

Jon wondered what arguments she had used to persuade the girl. "Are you coercing her, then?" he asked.

Gytha gave him her sharp-edged smile. "If you want to know something about her, ask her. I have no objection."

"I'm asking you," Jon said.

"You said you weren't having second thoughts," Gytha said lightily.

"I'm not," Jon said.

"It doesn't matter whether you are or not," Gytha said, and here her voice stopped being insinuating and became like steel. "Nor does it matter what she thinks. I have explained to you why this is necessary."

Jon nodded.

"And I did the same for her, I assume you."

"That consoles me," Jon said.

"So, did you find it?" Gytha asked, ignoring his sarcasm.

"Yes," Jon said.

"Good," Gytha smiled at him, while Jon suppressed a shudder at the sight. "When the moon is full, we'll commence the lessons."

Jon stared at her. "Why wait?" he asked.

"Because I need to take a look at it first," Gytha said. "Bring it here tomorrow; we'll look at it together. She needs to see it, too. Did you manage to get any information about it?"

"I have his notes about his experiments," Jon said. "And he also did considerable research on the subject, and I brought that as well."

"That's better," Gytha said, nodding.

She seemed pleased; Jon wished that he could share her satisfaction. He took himself off, though Gytha hardly seemed to notice.

On his way out, he encountered the girl again. She brushed by him without meeting his eyes.

Staring after her, he thought that Gytha's certainty about her co-operation might be optimistic.

Jon closed his eyes momentarily, and began to wish he'd stayed with the Night's Watch.