Jon Snow had risen from the dead and left the Night's Watch.
He went to persuade the great and minor nobles of the North to send troops to help him attack Ramsay Bolton and retake Winterfell.
However, he was only a bastard, and his core force consisted of wildlings who had crossed the Wall.
This made it very difficult for him to gain the support of those Northern houses that were still watching and waiting.
Many Northern houses either feared the brutality of House Bolton or lacked confidence in House Stark's ability to reclaim the North, ultimately choosing neutrality or supporting Bolton.
Lyanna Mormont, the new lady of Bear Island, handed a letter to Jon Snow. It was a letter from Draco.
The letter stated: The Queen of the North, Sansa Stark, has declared her loyalty to the Son of God, Luke Jaqenion. The queen requests that all nobles of the North co to Draco before the end of the year to swear fealty to King Luke.
Jon Snow exclaid in shock: "Sansa has beco queen?"
"Yes," said the ten-year-old Lady of Bear Island. "All the boys of House Stark are dead. Lady Sansa is the only legitimate heir. Bear Island will follow the Queen of the North."
"But Luke worships the Seven Gods! He will demand that everyone else worship the Seven Gods too! You cannot swear fealty to him!"
Jon Snow suddenly flew into a rage. His face twisted, his eyes bloodshot.
He roared: "Sansa Stark has betrayed the Old Gods! She no longer deserves to bear the Stark na! I do not recognize her as Queen of the North! She is a heretic! She has beco a heretic!"
When he left Bear Island, his face was twisted with fury: "I am the true Lord of the North!"
No Northern nobles were willing to send troops to help Jon Snow.
Everyone looked down on Jon Snow.
However, Jon Snow, leading only two thousand wildlings, actually defeated Ramsay Bolton's army in open battle.
The outco of this "Bastards' War" left everyone stunned.
Jon's forces were only one-third the size of Ramsay's, and those wildlings had no armor.
Yet they fought as if possessed by gods, fierce and unstoppable. It was said that so wildlings continued killing even after being stabbed five tis.
Jon Snow was even more exaggerated. So people saw that all blades that approached him were deflected by an invisible force!
He beheaded Ramsay Bolton on the spot, entered Winterfell, and declared that he would inherit the duty of Warden of the North and the na "Stark."
Harrenhal, the training field.
Three thousand Unsullied stood in perfect formation in the center of the training field, completely motionless.
Their breathing was perfectly synchronized. Every rise and fall of their chests seed pulled by the sa invisible string.
Sunlight shone on their black full-plate armor, reflecting a cold gleam.
There were no cloaks, no unnecessary decorations on the armor — only the red Jaqenion family crest on their chests.
A rearing dragon stood out strikingly against the black background.
Luke walked along the front of the formation, his steps unhurried.
His gaze swept across every face. Those faces showed no emotion — no reverence, no adoration, no fear, not even curiosity.
They simply stood there, like three thousand statues cast in iron molds.
He stopped in front of the soldier at the far right of the first row. "What is your na?"
"Unsullied," the soldier's voice was calm as still water. "Your Grace. We have no nas."
Luke was silent for a mont.
Of course he knew the Unsullied had no nas. From the day they were castrated, they had lost their nas and only had numbers.
But he still asked.
He continued walking, stopped in the center of the formation, and turned to face the three thousand n.
Three dragons with wingspans already reaching five ters circled in the air, letting out low hisses.
"From today onward, you are called the 'Fearless Black Armored Soldiers.'"
His voice echoed across the training field. "Your armor is called 'Fearless Black Armor,' your weapons are called 'Fearless Long Spears,' and your shields are called 'Fearless Round Shields.' You have no nas, but you now have a new title."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the entire formation.
"This title will make your enemies tremble with fear. It will make those who face you on the battlefield want to run before the fighting even begins."
The three thousand n showed no reaction.
They simply stood there, like three thousand walls.
Luke turned around and said to the officer behind him: "Take them to the camp. From today onward, they will have their own barracks, their own training field, and their own food standards. Their treatnt will be the sa as the elite of the National Defense Army."
The officer was stunned for a mont.
"Your Grace, they… are only slaves."
"They are not slaves," Luke's voice was not loud, but very clear. "They are soldiers. They are my soldiers. Let say it again: anyone who dares call them slaves will be punished by military law."
A faint ripple finally appeared on the three thousand expressionless faces.
That fleeting emotion looked like surprise, or perhaps sothing else.
Luke stood on the high platform of the training field, watching the three thousand Unsullied march away in formation.
Their steps were perfectly synchronized. Their black armor reflected a dark red glow in the setting sun. He recalled the legendary battle record of the Unsullied: In the Battle of Qohor, only three thousand Unsullied held off more than fifty thousand Dothraki cavalry in wave after wave of attacks, killing twelve thousand and still refusing to retreat, forcing the Dothraki to cut off their braids in surrender.
That was with only "leather scraps" equipnt.
Now, he had given them full plate armor, better weapons, unified training, and supplies.
What kind of battle record could such Unsullied achieve? He was sowhat looking forward to it.
He stepped down from the platform. Bronn ca forward.
"Your Grace, news from the North."
Luke took the letter and opened it.
It was about Jon Snow.
"How did this boy win the Bastards' War without help from the Vale?"
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