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Summary
"The north is too harsh to let things remain unspoken, little crow," bushy red brows create craters on Tormund's face, "With the Night's King dead, the Free Folk aren't in need of a commander anymore."
Jon looks over the ice. Its calm twinkling a stark contrast to the storm in his heart. He can't help but wonder, if there is no war, is there really a place for him?
