Jon Flint
The guards at the Hunter's Gate knew Jon well enough by now that they barely glanced up as he approached. Dankenn was on duty tonight, the only child of the family, trained for years to become a soldier, and he offered Jon a knowing nod.
"Evening walk, Lord Jon?" Dankenn asked, though his tone suggested he knew exactly where Jon was headed.
"Just need some air," Jon replied easily. "The castle feels stuffy tonight."
"Aye, I'm sure it does." Dankenn's face showed amusement. "Mind yourself in town. Streets get dark this time of night."
"I'll be careful." Jon passed through the gate, pulling his cloak tighter against the autumn chill. The moon hung fat and silver above Winterfell's towers, casting long shadows across the path down to Wintertown.
The walk took less than ten minutes. Jon knew every stone, every turn of the road. He'd made this journey often enough over the past months that his feet found the way without thought. Sometimes he was so deep in thought, and he had realised that he was already in the town. The town itself was quiet at this hour; most honest folk were already abed, and those who weren't were the sort who minded their own business.
The brothel sat on a side street near the market square, a well-maintained building that might have passed for a respectable inn if not for the red lanterns hanging by the door. Jon had learned that Ross ran her establishment with an iron fist wrapped in silk, the girls were clean, the clients were vetted, and trouble was dealt with swiftly and permanently. Jon had heard once that a man had lost his cock because he tried to force himself into a girl.
He knocked twice, then once more.
The door opened to reveal the same woman who always worked the entrance, Marin, she was a woman with a strange look, while she had her woman body, her face wasn't the face Lady Catelyn would approve of, she had a crocked nose, and her right cheek had a fracture, causing the bone to push a little against the skin of her right cheek.
"Lord Jon." She stepped aside to let him enter. "Ross said you might come by tonight. She's in the back room, waiting."
"Thank you, Marin." Jon pressed a copper star into her palm as he passed. "How's your cousin? The cough any better?"
Marin's face brightened. "Much better, my lord. That honey and herb mixture you suggested worked wonders. She's sleeping through the night now."
"Good. Keep giving it to her for another week, just to be sure."
The common room was busy despite the hour. Jon kept his hood up as he moved through it, though he recognized several faces, a baker's son from the market, two guards from one of the smaller keeps, a merchant he'd seen haggling over candle prices. None of them looked at him directly, which was exactly how Ross had trained them. Discretion was the cornerstone of her business.
The back room was quieter, removed from the noise. Jon knocked once on the door marked with a subtle red thread woven into the wood grain.
"Come in."
Ross's voice, warm as honey and twice as sweet.
Jon pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was comfortably furnished, not opulent, but well-made. A low couch covered in deep red fabric, a table with wine and cups already set out, candles burning in brass holders. Jon's candles, he noted with satisfaction. The light was steady and bright, none of that flickering nonsense from the cheap tallow most establishments used.
Ross herself reclined on the couch, her red hair loose around her shoulders and her green eyes studying him as they always did. She was beautiful, with her large breasts pushing against her dress.
"Jon Flint." She smiled, gesturing to the seat across from her. "Right on time. You're nothing if not reliable."
"Reliability is a virtue," Jon said, settling into the chair and pushing his hood back. "Or so Maester Luwin keeps telling me."
"Mmm. Among other virtues you possess." Ross poured wine into both cups, sliding one across to him. "You look tired. Long day?"
"You could say that." Jon accepted the cup but didn't drink. "Had some excitement at breakfast this morning."
"So I heard." Ross's smile widened. "The whole town's buzzing about it. Asha Greyjoy insulting the Mormonts, Lady Dacey stepping in, Lord Stark handing out stable duty like it's a gift. Very entertaining."
Jon shouldn't have been surprised. Ross had ears everywhere. "News travels fast."
"News is my business, sweet boy. Speaking of which..." Ross leaned forward slightly, her expression shifting from playful to serious. "I have things to tell you. Some more interesting than others."
"I'm listening." Jon set his cup down, giving her his full attention. This was the real reason he came here, not for the wine or the pleasant company, though both were nice enough. Ross had built herself an information network that put most lords' spy systems to shame. And for the right price, she shared what she learned.
Ross took a sip of her wine, considering. "We'll start with the concerning news. About two weeks ago, there were reports of a very skilled archer hunting someone in the wolfswood."
"Hunting who?"
"A girl, apparently. Young, maybe fourteen or fifteen. The reports are... sparse. Whoever this archer was, they knew what they were doing." Ross's green eyes held his. "The girl was never found. Neither was the archer."
"Dead or escaped?"
"Unknown. Some of the woodsmen think it might have been wildling activity, you know how they come down from beyond the Wall sometimes, raiding and causing trouble. But others..." She paused, swirling her wine thoughtfully. "Others think it was someone else."
A skilled archer hunting a specific target in the wolfswood. That suggested someone with training, resources, purpose. Not a random wildling raid. "Any descriptions of this archer?"
"Male. Moved through the trees like a ghost, according to one trapper who saw him from a distance. That's all I have."
"And no one thought to report this to Winterfell?"
Ross gave him a look that suggested he was being naive. "Jon, sweet boy, most people don't trust lords to handle their problems. They handle them themselves, or they keep their heads down and hope trouble passes them by. Besides, what would they report? 'We maybe saw a man with a bow two weeks ago'?"
She had a point. Still, the information worried him. Winterfell's lands stretched vast and wild, but they were supposed to be safe. Father had sworn oaths to protect the people here. A skilled archer hunting girls in the woods was exactly the sort of threat that needed to be dealt with.
"I'll look into it," Jon said finally. "Quietly. See if I can find anything more concrete."
"I thought you might say that." Ross smiled approvingly. "You're a good lord, Jon Flint. You actually care about the smallfolk. That's rarer than you might think."
"They're people. They deserve protection."
"They are. And they know you think so." Ross leaned back, looking almost proudly at him, but Jon was sure that was just a mask. "Which brings me to my next piece of information. There's been talk in Wintertown. About you."
"There's always talk about me," Jon said dryly. "Usually about my eyes, or my mother, or whether I'm secretly some kind of demon."
Ross laughed. "Not this time. This talk is... different. Complimentary, even." She paused, letting the moment stretch. "People are saying you should be legitimized as a Stark. Not just a Flint."
Jon felt something cold settle in his stomach. "What?"
"You heard me. The argument goes like this: you've done more for Wintertown than any Stark has in living memory. Your candle guild has changed lives, forty-three families with steady work and good wages. Some have heard about Ice Houses that shows you're smart, capable, and you actually give a damn about common folk." Ross watched him carefully. "So why shouldn't you bear the Stark name alongside Flint? Why shouldn't you be recognized as Lord Eddard's son in truth as well as blood?"
Jon took a slow breath, organizing his thoughts. This was... complicated. Dangerous, even. "I have no need of two different last names. The one I have is enough."
"Is it?" Ross tilted her head. "Most bastards would kill for a chance at their father's name."
"Not after they already bear another's man last name." Jon's voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "Great-grandfather Anden legitimized me as a Flint. That name carries weight, Ross. It carries honor and legacy stretching back thousands of years. The Flints are mountain clan lords, we held Breakstone Hill when the first Starks were still fighting the Red Kings. That means something."
"But—"
"Adding the Stark name now would be an insult to Lord Anden. It would say that Flint wasn't good enough, that I needed something better, something more prestigious." Jon shook his head. "I won't do that. I won't dishonor the man who gave me a future when I had none."
Ross studied him for a long moment, something like respect flickering in her eyes. "You're loyal. Even when it might benefit you to be otherwise. That's... unusual."
"It's practical," Jon corrected. "Loyalty buys loyalty. Lord Anden fought for me, recognized me, made me his heir. I owe him everything. What kind of man would I be if I turned around and asked for a different name the moment it became convenient?"
"A smart one, some would say."
"A stupid one, more like. The North remembers, Ross. If I proved myself disloyal to my own great-grandfather, why would anyone else trust me?" Jon leaned forward. "Besides, being Stark's bastard-turned-Flint is complicated enough. I don't need to add more complications."
Ross nodded slowly; she seemed surprised. "Fair enough. Though I suspect you'll keep hearing the talk regardless of how you feel about it. People like you, Jon. They want to see you succeed."
"Then they can see me succeed as Jon Flint." He paused, then added more softly, "I appreciate the sentiment, truly. But this is where I stand."
"Noted." Ross sipped her wine again, her expression shifting to something more amused. "Now, shall we move on to more entertaining gossip?"
"Please."
"Alysane Mormont was here last night."
Jon blinked, genuinely surprised. "Here? In the brothel?"
"Mmm-hmm." Ross's smile turned wicked.
"I didn't know you had male whores here," Jon said before he could stop himself.
Ross's giggle made it clear he was wrong. "We don't, sweet boy."
It took Jon a moment, then understanding dawned. His eyebrows rose. "Oh."
"Oh indeed." Ross looked thoroughly entertained by his expression. "Alysane is... not interested in men, shall we say. She has very particular tastes, and we're happy to accommodate them. Alindra spent several very pleasant hours with her last night."
Jon processed this information. He'd heard of such things, of course—men who preferred men, women who preferred women. The Faith condemned it, but the old gods were more pragmatic about such matters. And Jon had learned long ago not to judge people for things that hurt no one.
Still. Alysane Mormont. The big, aggressive warrior woman who'd nearly started a brawl with Asha this morning. That... actually made a certain amount of sense.
"Did she say anything?" Jon asked carefully. "After... you know."
"Oh, quite a bit." Ross leaned forward, clearly enjoying this part. "Alindra came to me afterward with a full report. Apparently Alysane was very talkative once she'd had her release. Complained about soldiers staring at her in Wintertown. Said she's tired of people assuming she's just another pretty face to be married off."
"Alysane is many things," Jon said slowly. "But 'pretty face' isn't the first description that comes to mind."
Ross waved a hand. "You know what I mean. She's a woman of marriageable age from a noble house. People have expectations. She was venting about those expectations, about feeling trapped by them."
"Understandable."
"But here's where it gets really interesting." Ross's eyes gleamed. "Alysane said, and I quote, 'Dacey has all the luck in the world.'"
Jon raised an eyebrow. "Why would she say that?"
"Because, my dear Jon, Lady Maege has already decided she wants Dacey to marry you even before she arrived at Winterfell."
The words landed like a punch to the gut. Jon stared at Ross. "What?"
"Lady Maege Mormont has heard all about you, your innovations, your political acumen, your success with the candle guild and the ice house project. According to Alysane, her mother 'wants a piece of the pie.'" Ross's smile was knowing. "Which is to say, she wants to bind House Mormont to your rising star."
Jon sat back. He shouldn't be surprised, really. He knew Maega had brought Dacey to see if her daughter would want to marry; that was all fine and good, but he hadn't known that Maega had already decided that she wanted her daughter to marry him even before the two had met. Jon wasn't sure how to feel about Maega. She had heard about him, and that had been enough to decide that her daughter should marry him, but on the other hand, everyone knew he was Lord Stark's son, so maybe that was enough for Maege to think that Jon could not be all that bad to her daughter.
"But," Ross continued, "Dacey has made it very clear to her mother that she won't marry anyone she doesn't actually like. So Lady Maege can scheme all she wants, but Dacey has the final say."
That was... oddly reassuring, actually. Jon found himself respecting Dacey more for it. She wasn't just going to roll over and accept whatever match her mother arranged. She wanted a choice.
"There's more," Ross added, her grin turning slightly cruel. "Alysane's exact words were: 'Jon Flint is handsome as fuck, so of course Dacey will fall for him, and I'm left with the craps.'"
Jon was no stranger to compliments about his looks; he could swear that sometimes even some men were surprised by him. "She said that?"
"She did. Quite bitterly, too. I think Lady Alysane is more than a little jealous of her older sister right now." Ross tilted her head, studying him. "You don't seem surprised by any of this. The political maneuvering, I mean."
Right now, Jon was a little confused. Was Alysanne into girls or not? Maybe she was just jealous that her big sister might marry and have a good future, and she herself could never marry another girl and would eventually have to marry a man that her mother chose for her. Jon's attention turned back to the talk she was having with Ross.
"I'm not, really." Jon picked up his wine and finally took a sip, using the moment to organize his thoughts. "Lady Maege is from the North, but she's still a lady. She wants what's best for her family. And right now, House Mormont could use some good fortune."
"Because of Jorah Mormont," Ross said quietly.
"Because of Jorah Mormont," Jon agreed. The story was well known throughout the North. Jorah Mormont, the former heir to Bear Island, had been caught selling poachers and smallfolk into slavery across the Narrow Sea. Slavery was illegal in Westeros, punishable by death. Lord Eddard himself had ridden to Bear Island to deliver the king's justice.
But Jorah had fled before the sentence could be carried out. Disappeared across the Narrow Sea, presumably to the Free Cities. Now he was either dead or living in exile, and House Mormont bore the shame of having produced a slaver.
"That kind of stain doesn't wash off easily," Jon continued. "Lady Maege needs something to restore her house's honor. An alliance with a rising lord, someone who's making a real difference in the North...that would help. It would show that House Mormont is still worthy of respect."
"And you don't mind being used this way?" Ross asked, genuinely curious.
Jon considered the question. "Mind? No, not really. Politics is about mutual benefit. Lady Maege gets a promising match for her daughter and a boost to her house's reputation. I potentially get a strong alliance with Bear Island and a wife who can hold her own in a fight." He smiled slightly. "Assuming Dacey actually likes me, of course. Which remains to be seen."
"Oh, I think she likes you," Ross said with confidence. "I heard of the way she was looking at you at breakfast this morning. Like she couldn't decide whether to kiss you or throttle you."
"Both, probably," Jon muttered.
Ross laughed. "Both is good, Jon. Both keeps things interesting."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, Jon thought of everything so far, an archer who was hunting people of Winterfell, Jon did not know who he was, but he needed to be taken care of, if it goes on, fear will spread across Wintertown, people would leave and they would decide that perhaps living in a different town was better, a safer one. Jon wondered who had sent this man to disturb the peace. Was it just a wildling? Could be, but usually the Wildlings are never alone, and they attack in groups, and still, what would be the point of attacking a random girl with a bow and arrow? Jon decided he needed to deal with this sooner rather than later.
And Dacey herself... Jon found himself thinking about her more than was probably wise. She was beautiful in a wild, dangerous way. Strong, clever, direct. She didn't play games or simper behind false modesty. She'd be a true partner, not just an ornament.
If she actually wanted him.
"Anything else?" Jon asked, pulling himself back to the present.
"One more thing." Ross's expression grew more serious. "This is fresh information, just came through my network yesterday. There's going to be a tournament at Highgarden in two months."
Jon's eyebrows rose. "Highgarden? That should be quite a Tourney."
"Indeed. Some merchant from White Harbor mentioned it while he was fucking one of my girls nine days ago. Said he'd heard it from a trader coming south from the Neck. The information's been traveling through various... channels ever since, and it finally reached me."
"Do you have details? Who's hosting? What's the occasion?"
"Not yet," Ross admitted. "But I'll find out. Tournaments that grand don't happen without serious planning and serious money behind them. Someone important must be behind it." She paused. "I thought you'd want to know. Tournaments mean political gatherings. Opportunities."
"You thought right." Jon knew what this meant. A tournament at Highgarden, one of the largest Kingdoms of Westeros and the second richest. Lords from all over the realm would attend. That meant alliances to be made, information to be gathered, and a chance to see how the other regions operated.
And if House Stark sent representatives... if Jon went...
"Thank you, Ross. This is valuable."
"I know." She smiled, then added more softly, "You're one of my better investments, Jon Flint. I like seeing you succeed."
Jon reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a small leather bag, heavy with coin. He set it on the table between them. "For the information. As always."
Ross took it, weighing it in her hand. "Generous, as always. Though you know you don't have to pay me quite so much. I'd probably share some of this information for free."
"Probably isn't definitely," Jon said. "And your network deserves to be compensated properly. Good information is worth more than gold."
"Spoken like a true merchant lord." Ross's smile was warm now.
Jon reached into his pouch again and pulled out a second, smaller bag. This one was tied with a green ribbon. "This is something else. For Alicia."
Ross looked deeply surprised. "Alicia?"
"Tell her to drink the contents once a day, mixed with warm water. Within a week, she should be fine." Jon pushed the bag across the table. "It's for the lung sickness. Maester Luwin helped me prepare it, honey, herbs, a few other things. It won't cure her completely, but it'll help her breathe easier and fight off the infection."
Ross stared at the bag, then at Jon, and for the first time, her eyes, her face showed true joy. "You... you made medicine for one of my girls?"
"She's been coughing for weeks. I noticed last time I was here." Jon shrugged. "Lung sickness can be dangerous if it's not treated. This should help."
"Jon..." Ross's voice was softer than he'd ever heard it. "You didn't have to do this."
"I know. I wanted to." He met her eyes. "Your girls work hard. They deserve to be healthy and safe. That's all."
For a long moment, Ross just looked at him. Then she set the bag down carefully, stood, and crossed the distance between them. Before Jon could react, she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him.
It wasn't like their previous kisses, quick, playful things that were part of their strange relationship. This was slower, with more passion behind it.
When she pulled back, her green eyes were bright. "You're a good man, Jon Flint. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
"I'm just... practical."
"No." Ross's smile was sad and knowing all at once. "You're kind. That's different from practical. And it's rarer." She stroked his cheek once, gently, then asked in a completely different tone, "Do you want to continue this in my bedroom? Without money?"
Jon was a little surprised to hear that, but still asked. "Are you sure? Last time you could not walk for a day." Jon teased her with a little smile.
"That's a sacrifice I am willing to make. Come." Ross walked him into her bedchamber.
For the next two hours, the brothel could hear Ross moaning Jon's name, and the old gods.
After Jon was done, he walked back to Winterfell, and as he did, his mind went to a person he hadn't thought of for a long time. I should give her new flowers, Mother Bella always liked flowers...
Val
Val stood near the entrance flap, arms crossed, watching as Mance Rayder paced before the small fire burning in the center pit. The man wore his usual mismatched furs; it was strange to see him looking nervous.
Tormund Giantsbane sat to Val's left, his massive frame making the stump he used as a seat look like a child's toy. The big man was cleaning his nails with a wicked-looking knife, apparently unconcerned with whatever had Mance so agitated. Three other clan leaders filled out the gathering: Harma Dogshead, the Weeper, and Rattleshirt, all watching Mance with varying degrees of interest and suspicion.
"We move south," Mance announced suddenly, stopping his pacing to face them. "Within the week. I want to be near the Wall in ten days' time."
The tent erupted.
"The Wall?" Harma's scarred face twisted into a scowl. "We're not ready for that. Won't be ready for two years at least, maybe more. We don't have the numbers, don't have the—"
"I'm not talking about taking over it," Mance cut her off. "Not yet. I'm talking about going near it. There's a difference."
"Why?" Val asked. Mance respected directness. "What's changed?"
Mance's face showed a little smile. "Lord Anden Flint will be at the Wall within ten days."
The name made many swallow their breath as if afraid it would be stolen away from their throats.
"Anden Flint?" Tormund's laughter boomed through the tent. "The giant-killer himself? HAR! Now that's a name I haven't heard in a while." He pointed his knife at Mance, grinning like a wolf. "Don't tell me you're thinking of killing the man. Because that would be the stupidest fucking thing you've ever considered, and I've known you to consider some pretty stupid things."
"I'm not planning to kill him," Mance said dryly.
"Good!" Tormund slapped his knee. "Because that man killed a giant thirteen years ago. An actual fucking giant, Mance! Taller than three men stacked, meaner than a mama bear with cubs, and Anden Flint took it down with just that big axe of his. Took its head clean off, or so the stories say." He shook his own head admiringly. "Man like that is not to be fucked with. Kneeler or not."
Val had heard the stories, too. Every wildling had. Anden Flint was a legend on both sides of the Wall. The three-meter-tall warrior from Breakstone Hill who'd supposedly fought a giant in single combat and won. Most wildlings assumed the tale was exaggerated, the way southern stories always were. But even half-true, it painted a picture of a man you didn't want as an enemy.
"Anden and I have history," Mance said quietly, and something in his tone suggested he wouldn't be elaborating. "But that's not why I want to meet with him. The man's from south of the Wall, yes, but he's not like the rest of those kneelers. He listens. He thinks. And right now, I need to talk to a man who can do both."
"Talk about what?" Rattleshirt asked, his voice muffled behind the helm made of bones he always wore. "What could a wildling possibly have to say to a southern lord?"
"About the Others," Mance replied, and Val felt cold in her bones, the others felt it too.
"The Southern lords will not listen and call us mad, but I believe that Anden will listen to me," Mance explained, and Val had a feeling he was not telling them the whole truth.
"Why should we care if a southern lord trusts us about the Others? What do we gain if we convince him?" Rattleshirt asked, looking at Mance suspiciously.
"Anden is Lord Stark's grandfather, his words will be heard, and I want to see if Anden is still the same one I left eleven years ago. I want to know if he is still as unbreakable as he was." Mance explained, and a few freefolk could understand, the man was an enemy, and if he was weaker now, it would be good for them to know.
Still, Val felt that Mance was not yet saying the whole truth to them.
"Why is the giant coming to the Wall?" she asked. "Is he taking the black?"
Mance laughed. "No. Anden loves Breakstone Hill too much for that. You couldn't drag him away from those mountains with a team of horses." He poked at the fire with a stick, sending sparks spiraling upward. "House Flint has a ceremony. When a boy of their house reaches the right age...thirteen, usually...he has to climb the Wall. Bottom to top, with just a few climbing tools. Proves he's worthy of the Flint name."
Val felt her eyebrows rise. The wildlings had climbed the Wall countless times over the centuries. She'd done it herself twice, once when she was barely fifteen. It was dangerous, exhausting work that required strength, skill, and more than a little madness. The Wall was seven hundred feet of ice that didn't forgive mistakes.
But to make it a ceremony? To require children to do it as proof of their worth? That was... actually impressive.
"Anden's bringing his boy to climb," Mance continued. "Which gives me the perfect opportunity to meet with him. Talk. See if we can come to some kind of understanding."
"The crows won't take kindly to you showing up at their Wall," Val pointed out. "Your name is no longer a crow's name,"
Mance's smile turned genuinely amused now. "People know my name now, Val. But they've forgotten my face. It's been ten years since I left the Night's Watch. Ten years since I threw down my cloak and walked away. Most of the brothers who knew me are dead, transferred, or have forgotten what I look like." He touched his own face, as if feeling for the man he used to be. "I was just another crow then. Nobody special. Nobody memorable. They'll see a wildling chief, maybe. But they won't see Mance Rayder, former ranger, former brother of the Night's Watch."
The tent fell silent. Everyone knew Mance's history, how he'd been a crow once, how he'd abandoned his vows and joined the Free Folk. But Mance rarely talked much about his life before he joined the Watch.
Tormund broke the silence with another booming laugh. "HAR! You always did have stones the size of boulders, Mance. I'll give you that." He sheathed his knife and leaned forward. "So we go south. Get close to the Wall. You have your little talk with the giant-killer. Then what?"
"Then we see what happens," Mance said simply. "But I need to know if Anden, if the northern lords, can be reasoned with. If there's a chance for something other than blood and death when the real winter comes."
"And if they can't be reasoned with?" the Weeper asked.
Mance's expression hardened. "Then we do what we've always done. We survive. By any means necessary."
"I'm coming with you," she announced.
Mance looked at her, one eyebrow raised. "Didn't ask for volunteers."
"Don't care. You're going to need someone with sense watching your back while you play politics with kneeler lords." Val straightened, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Besides, I want to see this Flint boy climb. If he's anything like his great-grandfather, it'll be worth watching."
Tormund laughed again. "I'll come too. Been too long since I've seen the Wall up close. Makes me nostalgic."
"Nostalgic for what?" Rattleshirt muttered. "For almost falling off of it?"
"For the good old days when all we had to worry about was dodging crow arrows!" Tormund declared cheerfully. "Simple times."
Mance sighed. "Fine. Val, Tormund, you're with me. The rest of you, keep the clans together while we're gone. I don't want to come back and find everyone's killed each other over a disagreement about goats."
"It was two goats," Harma protested.
"It shouldn't have happened at all."
The meeting broke up shortly after that, the clan leaders filing out into the cold night. Val lingered, waiting until only she and Mance remained.
"You're really going to talk to him," she said. Not a question.
"I am."
"And you think he'll listen?"
"Anden knows what it is like to freeze in the dark; he knows what it is like to feel your own spit freeze in your tongue. He told me once that if he ever saw me again he would pull out my spine through my throat and choke me to death with it," Mance said with a smile, but his tone made it clear he took the threat seriously.
"What a lovely friend," Val said dryly.
"He was," Mance muttered under his breath. Val said nothing; instead, she left the tent, wondering if Mance was risking too much with this plan.