Winter is coming.

[Yoren longshore]

This text aknowledges death and cannibalism.

This is spring? Yoren thinks to himself as he keeps moving.
His mind was starting to grow numb, a sign of the assault the wind had initiated against his body.
Keep the mind activated, he knew the techniques, recite nursery rhymes, smile, whatever can be done to make the brain continue.
He had a lot to recite, but as he started he found that neither the R’llorian rites, the seven pointed stars passages, nor the Ironborn rebirthing rituals soothed his mind.

First to his mind came The night that ended:
“…The brothers they rode, their horses they strode, them both out of breath.
The others they rode, their horses they strode, to find their final death..."

His mind was numb, he had no recollection of the rest of the song, but he knew better than to stop to ponder about it. Fleeting thoughts, fluid thoughts, always in motion, that is the way to survive the barrage of cold. He attempted a new song:

“A maiden fair, all black and brown and covered in hair” It did not sound right to him, but no matter, he and the guide had found the place they were looking for. Their guide had used the description of: “umpteenth leagues that way, next to the black rock.” Admittedly, umpteenth was a bit unspecific, but Yoren saw a black rock, that had to be it, surely! He could no longer feel his extremities, but he saw them. Were they still a part of him, or simply turned into ice, like a peg leg still attached?

A small commotion was happening further up the column, they had lost the will to speak, but the feeling of quiet despair that had ruled was slowly changing. It was still there, but it had gotten a tinge of morbid curiosity to it, people had bunched up in a flock, silently, somberly, watching. What had happened? Yoren was at the back and had no means to see:
“Continue, or the cold will set in your bones!” it was little more than a croak, but in the silence that had ruled, they all heard him. God, his voice was strange. His throat was parched;
he had not had a sip of water for ages. Snow surrounded him, but it was nothing to drink, putting snow in your mouth made the cold creep into your body faster, he was still lucid enough to know that. He had fastened a flask of snow under his clothing to melt, however, and it would soon be ready.

His throat would soon be relieved. The crowd had moved onwards and he could finally see what had caused the commotion: The pate, he had laid himself down, and closed his eyes for eternal sleep. Yoren knew that he would feel comfortable now, but the pate was doomed to a painful death. The last mercy: It required all of Yorens will to find his knife from his belt, but with a swift cut he slit Pates throat. The pates thirst would at least be slaked now. He left the body to the men behind him. The men that had fallen to the back was the weakest, They’d need the drink the most…

"
The dornishman’s taken my wife, but what does it matter for all men must die, and I’ve tasted the dornishmans wife."
It sounded wrong, but Yoren had no energy left to even ponder about it. They were so close, he could see the fires…

[Yoren longshore]

“Wug de na wek. Nek du da sel ve na to.” Yorens tired mind had a hard time to wrap his head around what was happening.

Soon he comprehended the sounds to be words, and when he understood what language the strangers spoke, he soon realized the meaning of their words. “Friends!” He croaked, the monosyllable hurting his throat.
He hurriedly found his flask of water and painfully swallowed a mouthful, the cold burned down his throat, but in its own way, it was invigorating. “We are not here to cause any harm, we have come as friends.”

Shouldering his way through his men he said: “This is your home, everything here is your home. Bread and salt, an ancient tradition, still bound strong to this day.”

A few seconds of silence passed before the reply came from a booming voice: “Bread and salt you will receive first, then a hot Broth, then a warm bed. On the morrow I will come and we will talk and out of gratitude you will speak true.” Yoren reflected briefly, on how this particular bastardisation of the old tongue had come to exist, but found that his belly had taken control of his mind, and after wolfing down soup, made thin to not strain the travellers empty stomachs too much, Yoren drifted to sleep.

After what seemed like a minute, Yoren awoke. It had been several hours, the fire had burned out, but he was tired and did not know why he had woken. He perched up voices drifted through the air, the booming voice from earlier seemed to have lowered his voice to a whisper, but it still resonating through Yorens entire body “Blood… Cold… sleep…free...”.
A quick glance made it apparent that he was the only one of his companions that had heard the voice. He tried to gauge the time, but it was nigh impossible. He was in a cave in the bleak mid-winter, he had no way of gauging the time.
He suddenly remembered the cold that had set in his limbs, and he swiftly checked that everything was working properly, then he drifted back to sleep…

He next woke up as a rough hand easily turned him around. “shh” The deep voice said: “Continue sleeping, I’m just making sure that no one has gotten bedsores.” However, Yoren was awake, and he had to quell his curiosity. The great bearded man was turning to leave, and Yoren hurriedly put on a robe before following: “These caverns are bigger than I expected.” A conversational tone would serve him well. he thought “You expect too little” The reply sounded. Not much of a talker are you? Yoren thought to himself as he continued to follow the man.

He does not seem to be rude, maybe asking questions would get him further than small talk: “How long have you stayed here? In these mountains, I mean?” This got him more of a reaction: “Since you kneelers put up a wall, ensuring that we couldn’t move down to you.” The reply came: “Since before my mothers mother was born. Since before your thrones, since the time when a man was free to do as he wished.” Certainly a reaction, if not what I expected… Let’s try to be blunt: “I am here to rectify for the wall.” Gathering strength in actually making the man turn around Yoren continues:”I am here to bring you to a better place.” The booming laughter that ensued lasted until it awoke all of the sleeping, and did not end until Yorens expression made it clear he was not joking. After his faltering laugh had ended the only response was “Let’s talk about this somewhere private, do you fancy the cold? Get dressed and We’ll talk outside.”
Yoren shuddered, but a few minutes later he was standing outside, now the real task began.

Sea, a mass of salt, water and wind. It requires a special man to look over the sea and not feel miniscule. Traveling north, beyond what any reasonable man should think of, the frozen shores finally come into view. With it comes the first issue: Finding a landing place. No maps, limited view, Ice sheets the size of smaller domains floating around. “Oars out” comes the signal- a landing place has been found. The treacherous waters harbour few natural docking points, and thick ice sheets blocked the one that was found. The Embolon was deemed the equal of these sheets and the boats crushed through. Easily crushed through, but still dangerous jagged remains of ice sheets bore into the hull of one of the ships, all but sinking it. A big salvage operation saw the ship rescued, but the ship would not be seaworthy on its own in a long time. While the seamen grumbles on the way to fix the ships, the landing party finally sets their feet on the soil of the far north. Mistrust between the different factions is still large, so Yoren splits all up in teams of four with one hunter in each. These gets miscellaneous tasks to be performed. This has much of a desired effect: It’s harder to mistrust someone after you have gotten to know them. After a day of foraging, they gather in front of the fireplace to talk. The planning was already done, but the men needs to be informed, and there are few better ways to grab a man’s attention than to get him to understand that your words may be his lifeline later on. After a quick meal, most head to bed. As the camp quiets down Yoren looks out, reflecting on where he is and what the next day will bring: The frozen shores, the end of many traders journey to the north, it was little more than the start of Yorens bands travel. Tomorrow they needed a guide. Moreover, Yoren knew that choosing the right guide was vital, too stupid and he would get them all killed, too smart and he would refuse to take the job. Too trustworthy and he would spill the beans to the men Yoren had brought with him, too treacherous and they could all be headed to a life in slavery. The way to find the right one was simple, in theory: find the best guide available and prod him to find whom he holds to be the best. Go to that one and the one he holds to be the best, you approach to ask of the most mediocre guide, Or at least that was the way Yoren was going to solve it. He would need to be new to the trade to accept the offer. He would also have to be experienced to manage the journey, so many considerations. With a big sigh, Yoren heads to the camp. Huddling next to the rest of the men he reflects over the unity the cold creates. Fossoways sleeping next to Longshores? What no mediator could have done the cold had done. No matter how bad the relations between the men were, huddling together was better than dying alone. Day two saw the true effects of the cold starting to kick in: a man had gotten cold in the night and had put on his parka, now he paid the prize, whereas the rest found heat in the parka, he got devastatingly cold. After a long days march his shivering had already stopped. When the shivers ceased, that was when Yoren realized that they had to stop. While the men made camp Yoren brought Loreia to find the guide. Five attempted swindles and three broken noses later, they finally found one that fit the bill. Bringing him back to the camp, morale starts to decrease. Morale decreases further when the man that was suffering from hypothermia was found naked in the snow the day after, apparently having reached the point of Hypothermia where overheating happens. Although he brought it upon himself, he was still a man, and a quick sermon is made as he is thrown down a river. The weeks that followed was uneventful, but as they headed further north the winds blew harder and harder. The Pate, already a frail man gave in to the sleepiness of hypothermia, lay down in the soft snow, and drifted into his happy dreams. There was nothing to be done for him;
he was given the last mercy before the trip continued north. When all looked the darkest, when the food was at its lowest, when the men were mumbling dissent, their luck returned. A herder saw them from a distance away and ran to the elder. He opened his home to these ragged travellers. Food was scarce, but water was plentiful and all had a warm bed to sleep in. For three days they were lodged here, through all that time Yoren was in conversations. Frustratingly slow their meanings were exchanged, only further slowed by the strange Mag Nuk dialect. He had a rough start on the language, but soon picked up pace, and after three days they were in understanding. The southwards journey was easily done due to their help from the people beyond the wall. After ushering the wildlings who wished to seek their luck further south onto their ships they went to the haunted forest where they sought for rare game to pay back debt to the Fossoways and the citadel. Having waded through the forest they set sail home, one experience richer. Their tapestries of achievements made bigger.