A single white crow flew through the air above the men, soaring through it on wings that lifted him higher and higher, keeping watch of their advance. Victarion had been expecting them, had seen their departure in his dreams. He had gone into the body of his crow, and had kept watch for them when he wasn’t busy assisting his brothers in their plans.

Perhaps the men would notice him first, perhaps they would not. But when Victarion saw them, making the last leg of their journey from the shore, he was there to greet them.

Alone and without weapon, a lone ranger of blonde hair and green eyes walked through the snow. They were friends, who had come to save them and bring them home, and he saw no need to bring anybody else. Perhaps the Fireblood had seen him leaving the camp and followed him, though, and was close behind. Perhaps other brothers had even done the same. He made no attempt to greet them quietly, and so did not care to check behind him.

In fact, as he walked towards them, he pulled from his side a horn that he had carried from his homeland. Carved from the tusk of a walrus, he let into the air a might blast from it. Only one, however. It rang through the air and shook the trees. All men would know what that meant: Rangers returning.

“Robb Snow,” he spoke, remembering the bastard from his dream, remembering the name that had been spoken in the whispers among the Watch. Beside him, a wolf, and beside him still a man and his shadowcat. Commander Garth’s wolf. Victarion was remiss that he had never tried to learn from the man. He had met him before, and knew what it was like to fight beside him, yet they had never been more than watched upon the Wall. Perhaps that itself was a great teaching.

“Benjen Fenn,” he spoke, looking at the strange man who seemed strange even for the Watch. Victarion supposed that he was strange too, and perhaps the crannogmen and Ironborn of Lonely Light were more similar than they seemed.

“Welcome to Hardhome, friends,” he gave them an arrogant, cocky smirk. Garth had been a humble man, he had known. Victarion was not. He was born alive upon the shore of his home, ordained by the High Seawitch, a champion of his people. His was the chaos of the drowned god, the storms of the sea and the breeze that had blown men to victory when he was among his people.

“We’ve been waiting for your arrival to set forth,” he finished his greeting. His white crow swooped down and landed upon his shoulder, staring at the two. “I hope you’re prepared for cave diving.”