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“I could just cut it.”
“Nonsense, you’re one of the Free Folk now. You need to have a wild mane.”
Jon snorted. “I don’t remember that being one of the requirements for joining.”
“Well, it is. Long hair gives you strength, protection from the icy cold.”
“That so?”
They were sitting in their hut, warm and lazy by the fire. Tormund was running his hands through Jon’s dark curls, preparing to braid it after Jon had declared it a nuisance.
Jon didn’t know if he could name a moment where he had felt more content.
“It is so, little wolf. There are many legends about warriors who lost their strength after their hair was cut.”
Jon hummed. “And I suppose I’m now going to be subjected to some endless story as you work?”
“Of course. Nothing passes the time like a good tale.”
“Hmm. Just so long as you keep it brief and don’t drone on.”
“I never drone on!” Tormund huffed, affronted.
Jon glanced over his shoulder to grin at Tormund. The larger man laughed and pushed his shoulder lightly.
“Enough of your teasing, little wolf. Let me work on ya.”
“Alright, alright,” Jon sighed, trying to settle in and get comfortable.
Tormund was separating his hair into sections. The feeling of his quick and clever fingers on Jon’s scalp was soothing.
“Now, let me tell you the tale of...wait, remind me, which tale was I about to tell?”
“Some fool thing about hair and strength,” Jon sighed fondly. Ghost padded over, and Jon softly scratched him behind the ears.
“Right. Let me tell you the legend of Hoegr, who lost his hair and lost his strength.”
Jon shifted, sat cross legged, leaned his lower back comfortably against Tormund’s thighs.
“Stop squirming Jon. I swear, you’re worse than my girls.”
Jon smirked, but stilled.
“That’s better. Now, Hoegr was a fisherman...no wait, a farmer-”
“This story’s off to a bad start already,” Jon said, grinning.
“Shut up, it’s been a long while since I’ve told it. Anyway, there once was a bald farmer named Hoegr who scraped out a living in the lands beyond the Wall.”
Jon let himself relax. He watched the dancing flames, felt the softness of Ghost’s fur, listened to Tormund’s strong voice ring through the silence.
“He lived alone, without the comfort of family or clan. Hoegr’s land was harsh and frozen and filled with stones, but with care and cleverness he brought it to life. Under Hoegr’s careful hands, barren land bore fruit.
Others saw his fruitful land, and wanted it. So the clan from across the river came, brought their strongest warriors. And because he was alone with no one to stand for him, Hoegr was forced to flee.”
“I thought this story was about hair?” Jon interjected.
Tormund dropped his hands in exasperation. Jon felt long strands tumble down his back.
“It will be if you damn let me get to it!”
Jon smiled fondly, gestured at Tormund to continue. The large man huffed, his strong fingers threading again through Jon’s curls.
“So Hoegr wandered through the woods in despair, without hope. Then he came to a clearing, a weirwood tree standing strong at its center. He fell to his knees before bone white roots, and begged the gods of the forest to hear him.
Please, I have lost everything, and I do not want to die in this wood. Please gods of the forest, gods of my forebearers, grant me aid. Give me your favor, and I shall serve you evermore.”
Tormund whispered these words, and they rang soft and haunting through the air. Jon hummed a bit in satisfaction. The sound of Tormund’s voice, the feeling of fingers working rhymically through his hair. It was mesmerizing.
“And the gods heard him. They twined roots around his ankles and lay him down on a soft bed of soil. And they whispered, ‘When you wake, you’ll have a token of our favor. It will give you strength. Use it well and you will be strong for the rest of your days.'
Then Hoegr slept soundly for seven days and seven nights, safe in the embrace of the gods.
When Hoegr awoke, he did not feel different. He yawned and stretched and tried to figure out what the gods had given him. Then he brought a hand up to scratch his head, and instead of bare bald skin, he felt a wild long mane of hair that tumbled past his shoulders. Like yours, little wolf.”
Tormund tugged on his hair roughly. Jon laughed, swatted the pulling hand away. The larger man smiled. He worked his hands back into the curls, continuing his work.
“Hoegr felt a surprising strength come to him with this hair, a strength he’d never felt before. He went back to his land, slew the warriors who had taken it, and felt sure and strong in his victory.
But Hoegr did not stop. With this new strength from his god-gifted hair, he felt unstoppable. He went to neighboring lands of neighboring clans, fought their strongest warriors, and made their lands his own.
And then the gods knew they had erred in giving him favor. For a man without a clan, a man who chooses to work only for himself, is too often a selfish man. They worried Hoegr was cursed, that he would try to do the worst thing of all, make himself a king.”
At this, Jon stilled. Tormund noticed, the rhythmic braiding of hair paused.
“I’m sorry, Jon, I didn’t mean-”
“No, it’s alright, I’m alright.” Jon brought a hand to the side of Tormund’s leg, tried to squeeze it reassuringly.
“I promise, it’s fine. Please, I want to hear the end.”
The braiding continued.
“So the gods played on Hoegr’s vanity. They whispered to him, ‘You do not need this hair, you were strong already. Prove that you can succeed without help of the gods, prove that you fought and won these battles alone.’
And Hoegr wanted to prove himself, prove that he and he alone could win victories. So he took an ancient blade to his scalp and shaved off his gods-given hair.
When it was done, Hoegr tested his strength, hit and kicked and lifted. And he still felt strong. ‘It really was just me,’ he thought. ‘I did not need the gods at all!’
He went to sleep that night, content. And that night, the cold cousins of the gods came to visit. They froze Hoegr’s lands and his crops and his tent, and then they froze Hoegr himself. And because he had thrown away his wild hair, his gift from the gods, his strength failed him. The next morning, Hoegr was found, bald head frozen, dead from the cold.”
Jon shivered. “Well that certainly is a-”
“I’m not finished, I have to summarize the lesson at the end.”
Jon rolled his eyes a little. “Well by all means, do so.”
Tormund chucked, then pitched his voice low.
“So, that is why the Free Folk must treasure their hair, for it keeps them warm and strong. And that is why we must treasure each other, for nothing we ever do is done alone.”
“...is it done now?”
“Yes, it’s done.”
Jon clapped a little. Tormund huffed out a quiet laugh.
His fingers still moved through Jon’s hair. Jon leant into the touch.
“Is this a common story among the Free Folk?” he asked.
“Yes, yes. It’s well loved by everyone.”
Jon hummed thoughtfully. “Mance’s hair was rather short if I recall.”
“Mance was born in the south, never heard this tale as a lad. He was one of us, but perhaps he still clung to some of his old notions.”
Jon hummed again. “Wait, didn’t the Thenns wear their heads bald?”
Tormund huffed in irritation. “Well, Thenns don’t know anything.”
Jon grinned. “I’m just saying that maybe this story isn’t as widespread as you clai-”
“Alright, alright, I’ve had enough sass from ya.”
There was a feeling of the end of his hair being tied, and another soft tug.
“Is it done?” Jon asked eagerly.
“Yes, it’s done. Gods know you couldn’t sit still a moment longer.”
Jon gently felt his hair. There was a braid at either side of his head, joined together into a thinner braid at his back. Many curls still tumbled loose from his shoulders, but when Jon shook his head experimentally, no strands fell over his eyes.
Jon smiled.
“Well, tell me how it looks. We’ve got no looking glass, so I’m afraid I must submit to your judgement alone.”
Jon turned to face Tormund. His clear blue eyes were shining.
Tormund wound a finger through a dark black curl, played fondly with the ends of it.
“You look like you belong here,” he said finally, voice soft.
Jon took hold of one of Tormund’s hands and melted into his arms.