Two of the old soldiers Jon had brought died, and one was so badly wounded he looked unlikely to survive.
Just moments ago, he had held off three tribal warriors by himself.
The remaining two were badly hurt as well.
Perhaps things would have been different if Jon had insisted on bringing a few more Winterfell elites.
But this was mountainous terrain, and many paths were perilous enough to make one's heart pound.
Those who were even slightly less agile might fall to their deaths.
It was simply a difficult choice.
Haken had lost too much blood and looked pale, but fortunately, none of his knife wounds were fatal.
And he was young enough that surviving should not be a problem.
The reason he had dared to ask Sola such a question was probably because his emotions had reached that point.
As Jon collected the tribal warriors' weapons, he secretly listened to Sola's explanation.
It was not because of vanity. Jon was fairly well-featured, but he did not possess the inhuman beauty of the Targaryens.
He wanted to know what exactly had attracted Sola to him.
As Sola bandaged Haken's wounds, she spoke in a somewhat hoarse voice.
"Haken, do you know about my mother?"
Haken did not understand, but he still nodded.
"She was not from the Painted Dog Tribe. When my father was young, he abducted her from the foot of the mountain. Her father was a knight."
As she spoke, Sola touched the ring on her hand.
"Before she died, she told me that there was not a single day when she did not hate Father.
"Haken, do you know? Whenever I think that if I married you, the sons I bore you would one day go down the mountain and raid some poor woman, I just