17.Hunting Shadows

259 AC, the Last Hearth

The Wandering Bastard

He had guessed right. The Lord of Last Hearth was indeed hosting a feast for the first nameday of his grandson, Jon Umber. The future Greatjon could now fit comfortably in Jon’s arms, but his wails were just as booming.

Hoarfrost Umber was a giant of a man, broad-shouldered like a boar and towering a whole head over most men, just like his grandson would in the future. He looked like half a giant, too, with a shaggy grey beard hiding most of his face, though his eyes were sharp and full of cunning. 

To Jon’s surprise, the Umber lord was an old friend of the gruff Osric. The two of them didn’t even bother to exchange courtesies as they embraced like long-lost brothers, though it looked more like two bears wrestling from the side. While not as tall as Umber, the Iron Bucket made up the difference in bulk and demeanour.

Before long, the two of them parted, laughing so boisterously it could pass for the bellow of a warhorn. A greying servant immediately stepped in, bringing in a platter of bread and salt. Without hesitation, Osric tore a piece of bread, dipped it into the salt, and shoved it into his hoary mouth.

“Glad to see you, old friend.” Umber’s dark eyes studied the Wull retinue and naturally fell on Jon. “Welcome to my hall. I see you brought a new face this time.”

“A friend I made along the way.” Osric Wull’s rough hand pulled Jon up to Lord Umber with a wide smile plastered all over his face. “The moment he cursed me, I knew we’d get along great.”

“Looks like one of the sister-fucking lot.”

Osric’s mouth twitched as he picked his ear. “He’s a Northman to the bone. A true Snow of the North… even in colouring, I suppose. Blessed by the weirwood, I say. He’s a devil with a bow and an arrow, too.”

Lord Umber gave him a knowing smile. “Hoping to finally beat Ronard in the hunt?”

Osric spat to the side. “Let’s see how the Burley bastard dares gloat to my face with his meagre marksmanship, pah.”

“The first bow in the mountains… meagre?” The Umber lord let out a low, rumbling laughter. Once he calmed, his gaze settled onto Jon. “Your name?”

The bastard dipped his head. “Jon Snow, Lord Umber.”

Surprise flashed across Hoarfrost’s gnarly face. “A polite one, too, unlike the older red-eyed bastard and his lot. You related to Bloodraven, boy?”

Jon stifled a sigh. His ears had long grown numb from this question. And gods, he could understand why they made the mistake, but it still rankled him. It would be easy to lie. Perhaps it would be helpful to claim royal lineage through a legitimised royal bastard. It would almost be fantastical, but his looks alone would be his strongest proof… as long as nobody looked closer. Jon was young enough to be born after Brynden Rivers took the Black, and claiming Bloodraven for his sire would make him twice as cursed as ordinary bastards, not just a dalliance but the fruit of broken vows more solemn than marriage. 

Not to mention the implication of who his mother could be… after all, Lord Bloodraven was not known to indulge with the whores of Molestown like the common brothers of the Night’s Watch.

And a part of Jon… disdained lying. There was honour in lying for a good cause, aye, but lying in this brought him nothing. A lie alone was harmless enough, but keeping it strung together would grow harder and harder with each retelling.

“Not that I know of,” he said at last. “The… man who raised me said I have some Stark blood.” Not a lie, yet not entirely the whole truth.

That pried out a booming snort from the Umber Lord. But he spoke no further—he need not when his thoughts were written plainly on his face. Half the North has a drop of Stark blood or two. Yet his claim was far truer than they would ever dare to wager. 

They were ushered past the double oaken gates and the looming curtain wall of black granite into the sprawling courtyard. 

Tormund, uncharacteristically subdued ever since they met the Wulls, was gawking at everything and everyone—his first time seeing a true castle, but Jon had long grown up in a grander place. Last Hearth was a castle smaller than Winterfell, but then again, only Harren’s half-charred ruin outdid the seat of House Stark in size. With a moat ringed around the base of the hill and sturdy round towers dotted at the four ends of the walls, the Umber seat was just a hardy keep in its own right, fourth in size—and strength—in the North.

“How can you even take such a… castle?” his squire murmured, wide-eyed. 

Jon let out a snort. “A strong host,” he replied. “Though few would waste their men on storming a well-defended fortification. On a good wall, a single defender is worth ten men. Usually, to take a strong castle, you try to starve the defenders out to death or simply negotiate a surrender.”

Tormund’s eyes lit up. “I want one o’ my own.”

“Don’t we all?”

He had once dreamed of having his own small holdfast, perhaps somewhere in the wolfswood or the New Gift. If not as a petty lord or even a master, a castellan or a steward in his own brother’s name would’ve been enough. Robb. ‘A child’s dream,’ Jon thought to himself bitterly. Even trueborn second sons got no lands or castles handed to them. Titles and honours were possible, but far rarer.

But castles… did not always bring one joy. Not always. Jon would know—the gods had decided to place the burden of rule onto his shoulders and grant him rule over a castle… of sorts. Not one, not two, but nineteen castles with the whole Wall and lands fit for half a kingdom, if quite cold and desolate. Most of that was a ruin, but he had more men and land than most lords would dare to boast, though his struggles were far greater, too.

And yet, Jon’s mind still drifted to the idea of a castle to call his own. Which man did not wish for lands and wealth and titles?

The more he thought of it, the more his lingering reluctance to go to King’s Landing melted away.

Sometimes, he missed being the bastard of Winterfell. 

As evening came, he received yet another reminder that not all bastards were born equal, and a nameless Jon Snow couldn’t even get a seat in the Giant’s Hall with the lords and their squires, kin, and trusted retinue. He and Tormund were amidst the servants and the younger outriders and common guardsmen, seated in the yard outside on long trestle tables of crude pine. The meals were rougher here than they were inside, with the finer meat never making it to their table, though the generous spread of freshly-baked bread, mutton roast slathered with mushroom sauce, had turned Tormund’s eyes as wide as saucers as he piled up as much as he could on his plate.

The feast started easily enough, with a long toast for the young Jon Umber that saw wine and dark ale flow in his name. 

“Are you sure you ain’t Lord Bloodraven’s son?” the man seated beside him asked. Dressed in Karstark livery, he had rough, gnarly hands and the look of a craftsman—perhaps a tanner or a bowyer. 

“Quite certain,” Jon said numbly, keeping his attention to the serving of roast pork ribs.

The man, however, was not deterred. “Fancy shadowskin cloak you got there. Rare goods, ‘specially of such a fine make. I’m willing to give ye a dragon for it.”

A Bolton outrider across the table sneered.

“Willas, you old swindler, this one ought to cost at least a dozen times more. Not a single tear, I see. A perfect shot through the eye, perhaps? Must’a been a big shadow-cat by the looks of it.”

“I wouldn’t sell it even if you offered me fifty.” Jon’s voice was flat as he raised his head to glare at the man seated beside him. The so-called Willas quickly squirmed, averting his gaze. “It’s a token from my dead teacher.”

That finally put an end to any aspirations to his cloak. A part of him was glad he had left his bows and Dark Sister in his humble quarters. The inconspicuous sword wouldn’t raise much scrutiny, but bows of weirwood and dragonbone were rare. And Brynden’s bows were some of the finest make in the world.

Across him, men spoke of their feats of strength, bragging of skills in riding and swordfighting. Though they bragged far more often of the hearts they had conquered, of the maidens—and married women they had slept with. Miller and bakers’ wives, washerwomen, a pretty castle maid here and there. Jon had heard much the same boasts of the royal squires that had come with Robert Baratheon in Winterfell, and these rang just as hollow.

His eyes slid to Tormund, who was drinking and trying to outboast the serving boys and almost succeeding—by the grace of his sheer booming voice. Perhaps in another half a year or so, the wildling would be no different from any boy born in the Seven Kingdoms his age. Jon observed for a while longer and gave a nod; just like in Castle Black, the young wildling boy knew what to say and what to never speak of.

The food was good, the ale was better than most, but Jon cared little for it. He had come here with another purpose. After another hour of sipping on his tankard, he excused himself for a piss and returned to his quarters.

Lying in the hard plankboard bed, he cleared his mind and spread out his senses elsewhere, finding a hound’s mind in the great hall and slipping inside.

The talk inside the hall was not much different from the one outside… though the speech was not half as rough. 

He pawed underneath the table, slipping between kicking legs and the other mutts until he had a view of the dais. His gaze slid over Karstark, Umber, and the rest and lingered on Lord Bolton and his son and his young daughter to sear their appearances in his mind. Rogar Bolton, young Roose Bolton, and the Bolton maiden he knew not the name of. She was not alive in his time, nor was there ever much mention of Roose Bolton having an older sister. Probably she perished sooner or later, then. The line of Bolton had been thin for hundreds of years, with the flayed lords never siring more than an heir and a spare and even that was rare. Their two small cadet branches had been cut down by the Great Spring Sickness, and the Flayed Lords had notoriously ill luck with children—more than half would perish in the crib. 

Pale skin, buxom figure and hair that spilt like dark ink over her shoulders… she had a ghostly, sinister sort of beauty. But her lips were thin with displeasure, and her pale blue eyes were filled with longing and set on… Rickard Stark. 

His gaze also settled on his grandsire, then. The heir of Winterfell was a stern-faced man in his early twenties who reminded Jon of his own father. The maiden beside him, who looked like an older and kinder Arya, could only be his grandmother. Lyarra Stark.

Both had perished before he was born, and this was the first time he had ever laid eyes on them. Gods.

He wanted to speak with them so badly it hurt. And yet… what was he to say?

“I’m your grandson from the future.”

He didn’t even look like a proper Stark anymore. And the heir of Winterfell would not be so easy to speak with or see in private, not to a no-name bastard. Any bonds of kinship or claims of such would ring hollow without the affection borne from closeness.

But he had not come to Last Hearth for this.

His body jolted as a servant carrying a heavy tray kicked him away.

Jon tore himself away from the hound’s mind and closed his eyes with a heavy heart.

Killing a lord was no easy feat. Lords treasured their lives dearly, and were always protected, whether by custom and law or by steel and leal men. The more paranoid ones always kept a wine and food tester at hand, even in the safety of their own castles. Killing any lord was hard, aye, but killing them in secret? That was harder still. 

But there were moments where all those protections grew lax, even outside times of war. Any Lord of the Seven Kingdoms had a love for martial pursuits and display of valour and skill, which came hand in hand with a measure of peril. It was no great risk, but there was an element of danger to tourneys and hunts… and that’s what made triumph in such things all the greater. 

The next day came as all the guests in Last Hearth stirred at the crack of dawn, and within half an hour, the courtyard was churning in preparation for the upcoming hunt. Northmen were not as eager for tourneys and southron valour and chivalry that the south held so dear, but in turn, each lord of the North loved a good hunt. Perhaps the gods were smiling upon him this day—even the taciturn Bolton and his young heir were no different. 

Roose Bolton. Oathbreaker and kingslayer. The man who killed his dear brother at a wedding feast and betrayed the whole North. Even now, at one and ten, he looked pale and ghastly, much like a sinister life-like doll. Neither slender nor bulky, there was a shapelessness to his body that he had kept even four decades later.

A small voice in Jon’s mind whispered that this Bolton and his son had broken no vows. That he had done no ill. But Jon knew better. He knew his histories. Twice had the Flayed Men broken their vows and oaths, rebelling against Winterfell, and through clever schemes, they were spared destruction even in defeat. Treachery ran strong in the blood of Bolton. Our blades are sharp. The moment Winterfell grew weak, those sharp blades would be the first to dig into Stark flesh, and they would do it eagerly. He had seen it. 

“You well, Jon?” Osric’s gruff voice was filled with concern.

Jon rubbed his eyes. “Apologies. My sleep was poor tonight.” Most of it had been spent bending minds to his will.

The Wull leaned in, placing a meaty hand on his shoulder. “Don’t get involved with the flayed man, boy. Nothing good ever comes outta that cursed line.”

“Their… daughter is pretty,” he lied through his teeth. 

That pried a rough chuckle from Osric. “Aye, she’s pretty enough to turn heads. The cold face is all Bolton, but those fine teats come from her Waterman mother. Stealing a glance or two is fine, but I wouldn’t look further—Sygra’s hand was promised to Lord Whitehill as soon as Rickard got himself a betrothal.” 

No wonder the Bolton maiden was looking at his grandfather like that. In the North, there was no greater match for any lady than the heir of Winterfell. 

It didn’t matter. Sygra eventually joined with Lyarra Stark, plucking over a slender light bow. Their group swelled when a Mormont maiden trotted over, the youngest of the three, and they were followed by a small retinue of Stark guards and two hawkers carrying birds of prey with their heads covered in leather hoods.

Jon gave a curt nod to his new friend. “Looking is no crime.” Unlike what he planned to do soon.

“Still confident you can beat Ronard with the bow?”

“Ten victories out of ten in hunting,” Jon said without skipping a beat. “Perhaps eight or nine in archery. Can’t be sure about that until I see him with a bow.”

Osric’s smile grew savage. “If I had heard you a week before, I’d call you an arrogant braggart or a blind bastard. I’ll try and see if I can goad that overproud sot into a contest of archery.”

“I’ll bring you a stag’s crown antlers and a whole cave bear, then.”

“No need to risk your life for a cave bear,” Osric grumbled, giving his shoulder one last squeeze.

Before long, Hoarfrost Umber announced the beginning of the hunt and the men, hunting hounds, and horsemen streamed out of the gate, leading straight into the iceweald forest. It was no wolfswood, but greater than any woodland south of the Neck bar the kingswood. According to the histories, it had once been part of a primordial forest stretching from the Grey Cliffs to the Bay of Ice… and perhaps even into the haunted forest. 

It was the beginning of the fifth moon of the year, and the trees were already in full bloom, bringing a far brighter and warmer sight of anything the haunted forest could offer. 

The moment they were out of earshot from the rest, Tormund spoke. “Why’d we go on our own when the rest stick in one big group?”

“Guess.”

Tormund scratched his ear, glancing around and about. “Some knee–uh, noble trickery?”

“You can say so,” Jon said calmly, already stringing up his weirwood bow. “A noble’s hunt is a contest between each clan or House. Some compete in the display of skill, others chase the prestige of the kill. A buck’s antlers are the finest trophy, followed by bears and boars—the bigger the better.”

“Prestige?” The boy’s auburn brows knotted together. “What good’s that for? Can it make me stronger?”

“Aye. There’s strength in having prestige, but it’s a softer sort of strength.” Prestige was something as elusive as honour. Would Stannis have ever spared him a glance without the prestige of House Stark and the Stark blood running through his veins? “You need not worry of such just yet.”

His squire just nodded with a face that was very much full of doubts. Perhaps in time, he would understand. Jon himself struggled to understand it at times. 

“As for why we split…” Jon pulled out an arrow from his quiver. “Chieftains and noble hunting parties are centred around one man. It’s competition for lords and chieftains only—perhaps for their brothers and sons, but not for the common huntsmen and outriders. Osric doesn’t care for such shite. He wants one thing only—to outdo his foe in the prestige of the kill. To shame him in skill.”

“Can’t he challenge him in battle?”

Jon’s mouth twisted. “He already has. This is the challenge. Remember this, Tormund. There are many sorts of challenges men can raise, but those who issue them surrender the chance to make the terms. And each challenged man is no fool and would only pick a domain they have confidence in.” 

The arrow nocked on the string, and he pulled it, aiming at the greenery. 

Twang. 

He felt the life perish in his mind. Yet this kill was different from the rest. Before, he had killed not only to hone his skills but to feed himself and hone his skills. It was a matter of life and death. This was different. He did not need the meat of this great elk, nor his fur.

He pushed the pang of guilt aside. Its death served a far nobler purpose than mere survival—the destruction of his foes. Yet that sounded hollow in his own mind.

“Damn,” Tormund muttered as the two of them approached the fallen beast. “One arrow straight to the heart. And I didn’t even see the elk. Are you cheatin’?”

Its crown of antlers was sprawled over six feet. Each side was perfectly symmetrical with twelve tines. That alone ought to be near unmatched in the hunt, the sheer size of the beast aside. It had to weigh over thirteen hundred pounds alone.

“A hunt is a matter of skill, Tormund,” Jon said quietly. “And for good or ill, some men are more blessed than others. I’ll notify Osric’s men. Start skinning it—I want the pelt pristine.”

“And you?”

Jon took a deep breath. “I’ll be hunting a more dangerous prey now. A mere great elk with its antlered crown might not be enough to best the finest huntsman of the Northern Mountains.”

A tug of his mind had the Wull hounds rush towards Tormund and the fallen elk as Osric followed. Schooling his face, the bastard disappeared into the woodland, opening his senses to the rhythm of the forest. 

The woodland grew as quiet as a ghost, his breath was deathly silent as he moved like a phantom between the trees, rushing eastward with practised grace. He passed by the Stark and Umber hunting parties without being seen. Even their hounds failed to sense him. In half an hour, he finally found his target. Rogar and Roose Bolton lay wait while half of their retainers tried to pen down five red wolves with a pack of a dozen hounds. 

Jon’s lips curled.

The wolves came to an abrupt halt, and even the hunting hounds slowed down.

“Why’d you stop, stupid mutts?” the master of hounds cursed.

“I don’t like this, Amon,” another muttered, warily eyeing the wolves and the hounds that started whimpering.

Shadow emerged from the treeline behind them, without making a sound.

Jon simply nocked two arrows.

Twang.

Shadow pounced, tearing through the back of the spine of the hound master the same moment the two arrows sank into the backs of the Bolton huntsmen, and the three of them fell with a thud. They had died without making a single sound, without even seeing their killer. It was dishonourable… but Jon couldn’t bring himself to care. He was a bastard in the end.

His head throbbed as he bent the hounds and the red wolves to his mind to the full. Sixteen beasts were far beyond what he could comfortably control, but Shadow’s presence kept them in line.

Without hesitating, Jon rushed forward, prying his arrows out of their back. With a single order, the beasts pounced on the three corpses, tearing them apart beyond any recognition… and erasing any traces of arrow wounds.

But consuming manflesh was a taboo for any skinchanger.

He had withdrawn his mind before their teeth sank into the flesh, and now watched the macabre feast as beasts eagerly sank their fangs into manflesh. Jon did not dare blink, looking at the end of these men. They were innocent of any crime and wrongdoing… save for their service to their sworn lord.

Perhaps Bloodraven was right. We do what we do because we must. Within mere minutes, the forest grew deathly quiet as each beast had its fill, and nothing more than a reddish stain of bones, torn limbs, and chewed-out guts remained amidst strips of shredded garments and the fallen knives and spears. 

Lord Bolton was easy to find, still waiting for the prey to come with his son and three more retainers, all unaware that they had become the hunted.

Jon circled to approach against the wind, while the wolves and hounds were roused, would be the hammer to his anvil… should the need arise. Yet something unsettled the hounds under his command, and they would have started to whimper if Jon had not reined them in. Shadow’s hackles all rose, too, as did Jon’s vigilance. 

“They’re wasting time,” he heard Roose’s impatient voice in the distance. 

Lord Bolton’s soft, dulcet voice sent shivers down Jon’s back. He sounded exactly like Roose Bolton would in four decades.

“A good hunt is all about patience, my son. And to hunt a wolf, you need to match its patience and wield twice the cunning.”

Any lingering doubts Jon had melted away at those words. But the moment he neared fifty yards, the hairs on his neck all stood on end. His foot froze, not daring to step further. There was something… dangerous to Bolton. His senses found Roose and the three retainers easily enough, their minds churning with a mix of impatience, frustration, and anticipation. Rogar Bolton’s mind, however, was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t like the sharks in the sea that melded with the waves, but like the body was no more than a mummer’s puppet.

Cold sweat trickled down his back, but it was too late to turn back. 

Jon let his emotions drain away as his hand reached for the quiver. Three arrows lay in the fingers of his drawn hand, while the fourth one was nocked on the string. 

A true master marksman can let loose three arrows in a heartbeat with deadly accuracy.

He was no true master marksman, not yet, but Bloodraven’s steady guidance had seen him grow good enough. Four arrows in two heartbeats was something he could easily do… but not that accurate at the distance of fifty yards.

He closed his eyes, letting himself feel the forest. Letting his mind itself sink into the wind and the trees and the woodland itself. Even now, he could only feel four foes in that small clearing.

His mind settled. The string grew taut as he pulled with a practised motion. 

Badump.

Twang. Twang.

Badump.

Tawng. Twang.

Jon cracked his eyes open, just in time to see four arrows strike true and four bodies crumple on the ground with arrowshafts striking out of their chests. The young Roose Bolton had died without even knowing what had killed him, but there was one last foe.

His hand reached for another arrow, but Lord Bolton had already drawn his sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Twang. 

Twang.

Twang.

He kept one arrow loose after another, and again, and again until his quiver was empty. 

Yet Rogar Bolton was like a whirlwind, swinging his sword with deathly precision. Some arrows were cut in two, while others were deflected or blocked by the flat of his blade. He did not slow down, nor did he falter, no matter how swiftly Jon let loose his arrows, and soon his quiver grew empty.

“Come out, filthy rat,” an emotionless voice echoed through the trees. “Or should I come to you?”

‘Most dangerous warrior,’ Jon thought darkly. ‘More skilled than Qhorin Half-Hand.’

Without hesitation, Jon sank his mind into the beasts he had bent. Shadow, the wolves, and the hounds all rushed at Bolton’s back and flanks like a flood of fur, muscle, and teeth. There was no fine control, but there was no need for it with beasts who could be led in a pack.

Rogar Bolton’s face twisted in anger.

“A filthy warg? No, a direwolf… a Stark?!”

Jon had already pulled Dark Sister free from its sheath.

Lord Rogar Bolton was a storm of steel and death with the sword, but he had only one pair of hands and wore a tunic of pink silk and leather breeches. No nobleman went on a hunt with a ringmail and lobstered steel, and one sword, no matter how swift and dangerous, could not contend with over dozens of bloody maws.

Wolves and hounds fell one by one, but by the time Jon was there, the man was torn apart limb by limb. 

His throat was ripped asunder to the point where his head was torn off, his innards were shredded open, and yet… Lord Bolton’s pale eyes were set on Jon’s face, burning with hatred. If looks could kill, he’d be dead a thousand times.

“Not dead yet?” Jon murmured to himself. The wolves cracked open Rogar’s bones and started drinking and licking his marrow—even wights would have died by now. 

Dark Sister split the ripped head in twain right in the middle. Even apart, the eyes still glared at him, very much alive and overflowing with hatred.

Jon swung down again and again and again, the sword cutting through the ground with wet thunks until his whole body grew numb with exertion.

He stepped away, bonelessly crumpled onto the nearby grass, chest heaving with exertion. Before him no longer lay a fallen corpse but just a bloody mush of diced bone and flesh and muscles that the wolves devoured all too eagerly. Not even a whole bone or an inch of flesh remained. He could feel the scent of blood and death rise in the air, promising a feast for scavengers and nearby predators alike. A pair of tree cats were already warily approaching, ravens were circling above, and another pack of wolves was drawing near.

A raspy laughter tore from his chest as he wheezed out. But it froze in his throat as he felt something cold and dark and old stir. The weirwood beads on his neck pulsed, as if stirred from sleep. The air thickened, and suddenly a sinister shadow rose from the minced remains, taking the form of a horned man-beast. It screeched and rushed towards him faster than he could blink, yet seemed to bounce off him, just as the beads around Jon’s neck burned down on his skin like hot coals.

Before Jon could recover, sunlight streamed through the broken clouds, and the moment the wraith touched it, it blazed like kindling, and with a shriek, it turned to smoke as the wind swept it away.

Bloody fuck?

Was Bolton even human?! 

His head pulsed with pain, and he groped down his collar only to hiss—the weirwood beads were still scalding hot. That had definitely left a burn on his skin.

But he knew it in his bones that Bolton was dead. Man or monster or demon… he was gone. The bright sun was the bane of all fiends and demons and darkness, Brynden had taught him that much. 

He kept laughing again, the sound more hysterical by the heartbeat. By his side, the wolves and hounds started howling as one as if to join him.

Fuck.

The line of Bolton had come to an end at his hands—

His laughter came to an abrupt halt as he thought of something. He still had a bear to hunt; his promise had to be kept. And… his other hunt was not over, not yet. There was one more Bolton to kill. And that one would be far harder to slay, if for an entirely different reason. Jon already felt hollow—whatever hatred had churned inside his chest had all drained away.

Some rot must be cut out before it takes root.

Teeth gritted, he dragged his weary body up as Shadow tore the arrows from the corpses and brought them to him with a wagging tail.

Fuck. He had to hide all traces of his ambush, too. His own garments were soaked in Bolton blood. Few would mourn the demise of Lord Bolton and his heir or the end of the Flayed Man, but if foul play were involved, Lord Umber would be honour-bound to investigate.

The ache in his temples grew fiercer by the minute, forcing him to let loose of the wolves and the hounds. But they had already gone feral and angry. The hunt would come to an end soon after they found Bolton… but it would take time to notify everyone spread across the vast woodland. He had an hour or two. Four or more, if he was lucky.

And yet, his head pulsed too much to skinchange into his owl. His senses and mind felt bruised, and the burn around his neck still stung. Thankfully, Shadow’s senses were sharp. After an hour of prowling through the trees, he finally found his target.

The gods had decided that House Bolton would come to an end that day.

Only… there was a small problem. Sygra Bolton was still with his grandmother and the young Mormont girl, the three of them fleeing a furious cave bear the size of a giant. The guardsmen were trying to poke it with boar-spears, but that did nothing but anger the beast more. Brave as they were, they were swatted aside like midges, crumpling with a single swipe of the bear.

Jon, watching from a nearby tree, had already drawn an arrow, its cold steel tip aiming at Sygra Bolton’s heart. Fuck.

The ache in his head only grew.

She had done nothing wrong… aside from being born in the wrong house. ‘And sired by a fiend.’ 

His grandmother’s foot caught a root, and she tumbled to the ground. And when Sygra Bolton turned around to help her up, Jon cursed again. He couldn’t bring Shadow out, not before Lyarra Stark. 

Was this why this Bolton maiden had never lived to his own time? Because she had saved his grandmother, trading a life for a life?

Lifting his aim a few inches higher, he let loose an arrow. Twang.

The bear let out a furious roar. 

Twang.

Twang.

Twang…

Twang…

Jon kept loosening arrow after arrow until the beast finally fell down, with nearly a dozen arrows sticking out of its eyesockets, nostrils, and mouth. 

Not even one had missed. 

The exertion was too much for him—both mental and physical. Pain lanced through his head.

Hoarse, raspy laughter tore from his throat as his own knees buckled and the world descended into the darkness. He barely managed to command Shadow to prowl around, guarding the surroundings from beasts.

When he awoke, it was to a deep darkness. In moments, his eyes grew used to it, and the outline of a cosy ceiling grew clearer on the sound of deep snores.

He was in a room—a better room than his previous quarters, which he had received in Last Hearth. Not a dungeon cell, then. Relief washed over him. He quickly found Dark Sister, lying inconspicuously beside his bed.

The thunderous snores were coming from Tormund, sprawled over a chair.

Jon’s whole body felt like it was made of lead, and his mind throbbed with a dull ache that would not go away. He had plunged himself too deep, trying to control more than he could handle.

“Get up,” he rasped. His voice sounded like a rusty knife scraping on stone. “How long was I asleep?”

That was enough to have Tormund grumble and stir from his chair, rubbing his bleary eyes.

“Three days,” the boy said through a wide yawn. “They said you were bone-tired with a high fever.”

Jon slowly released a breath; he had not been exposed.

Tormund continued mumbling, “The wolf lord promised to reward you richly for saving his woman. Left a bag of shiny gold and silver. Said once you come to Winterfell, you can get a whole chest o’ gold, that or choose a holdfast in the wolfswood.”

Jon’s eyes flicked to the table, and surely enough, the bag was quite generous, even if it wasn’t only gold. At least half a hundred coins, perhaps a near full hundred, judging by the fullness of it. More than he had seen in his entire life. A chest full of gold would have near a thousand, perhaps even more. More than the treasury in Castle Black, and more than enough to see him live well for the rest of his life in some faraway corner. 

As for the holdfast… Jon strongly suspected it would be one of those wooden towers lording over a small village near the wolfswood. Perhaps a large village, if Lord Stark was feeling generous enough, though that was unlikely. He had only saved the Stark heir’s betrothed, not the Stark heir or the Lady of Winterfell.

Once upon a time, he would be glad to take a holdfast as his own, even a rickety tower out of wood over a small village would do. Now that he had ruled over Castle Black and hundreds of men, that thought no longer held the same appeal. 

It would be wiser to take the gold too, perhaps even the Starks would prefer it. It would display the magnanimity of Winterfell, while not saddling them with an unknown bastard for a vassal. 

Perhaps he ought to save a few more ladies when the chance appears, and he could grow to be a rich man.

After the sound of shuffling and fumbling, Tormund lit up a small lamp.

“Anything else?”

Tormund let out a long yawn. “The wolf maid came too, face full of regret as she sized you up. Said she has a man, but her sister doesn’t. Stole herself a kiss on the lips before she left, too. If you get her alone, I bet she’ll be willing and eager, har.”

‘No more damsel saving,’ Jon decided with a shudder, his fingers brushing against his lips. They felt no different than any other day. His grandmother was beautiful… but he was not a Targaryen to bed his kin and call it custom. Even the most perverse in the House of the Dragon would not lay their hands on their grandmother or grand-aunt.

“You will speak of the future Lady Stark with respect,” he wheezed, eyes glaring at Tormund. “Never, ever, dishonour the daughter or wife of a lord, lest you wish to make a foe that will want your head and is willing to summon hundreds of swords to chase you to the ends of the earth to get it. No coin is too much to squander, no effort is too small to win back their honour. This is how blood feuds start… and even wars have been fought for less.”

Wide-eyed, Tormund nodded quickly. “I get it,” he said with a solemn face. “The wolf lord and his lady all left already, leaving you an invitation to Winterfell. All the guests left—even the pretty bear lady. Iron Bucket said you’re always welcome in Breakstone Hill and the Mountains. Even the Burley marksman left you a warm invitation, saying he’s willing to match marksmanship with you anytime, any place, but uh… Lady Bolton is still here… and also came to see you twice.”

“Lady Bolton?” he mouthed weakly. 

“Aye. Her brother and father were eaten alive by a wolf-pack, but she didn’t look too saddened.” Tormund’s eyes narrowed at him ever so slightly. “Odd thing, even the bones were gnawed and broken into pieces. They say a new fierce beast has appeared in the woodland—that’s why most o’ the lords scurried to leave. Bold woman, Sygra Bolton. She even told Lord Umber to burn the remains, thanked Lord Umber for the return of her father’s Va-Valerin dagger?”

“Valyrian steel,” Jon said. “Valyria is a lost empire far beyond the Narrow Sea. Their smiths had mastered the art of spellforging, and steel of their make is all sharper than any razor, never dulls, rusts, or breaks.”

Tormund’s eyes lit up. “Where can I get a sword like that?”

“You can’t. It’s priceless. Stealing from a House that has one won’t work either,” Jon added, seeing the slyness written all over his squire’s face. “It’s even worse than fucking a lord’s wife.”

“Pah. What a load o’ shite!”

Jon let out a long, tired sigh. You could take the wildling out of the wilderness, but not the wilderness out of the wildling. 

“Have you thought of the consequences?” he asked quietly. “Stealing a sword by force makes you foes, and others will be far eager to pry it off your hands in turn. There are benefits to returning a Valyrian steel sword that is not yours, though they might not always be tangible. There’s a reason why, of all the tribes and clans beyond the Wall, only the Thenns prosper, and the rest are one bad skirmish from scattering like a loose pile of snow or dying off in the cold.”

The words finally sank into Tormund’s thick skull. 

The next two days, Jon recuperated in bed. He managed to pretend to sleep when the new Lady Bolton came for a visit. 

On the third morn, when he was eagerly wolfing down a hearty breakfast in a platter that Tormund had brought over, the door creaked open, and a slender, cloaked figure slipped in.

Jon swallowed the mouthful of cold meat and dipped his head. “Lady Bolton.”

The cowl was pulled down, revealing a face that was even prettier up close. There were no Essosi powders or lip balms, no ornaments, just pure Northern beauty… far easier on the eye than her father or brother. Her gait was impeccable, reminding him of Sansa, as did her courtesies. 

Her pale, unblinking eyes studied him with an intensity that made something inside him fidget. And her crimson red gown was cut a bit too low, revealing… he forced himself to hold her gaze instead as his loins stirred.

It was at that moment that Jon Snow knew he couldn’t bring himself to try to kill her again. Not unless she tried to threaten him first. The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword. And from up close, he could find even less fault in her. 

When she opened her mouth, a soft, melodic voice that would put even Sansa to shame slipped from her lips.

“I owe you a great debt, Lord Snow,” she said.

‘I killed your brother and your father. I wanted to kill you.’

“Anyone would have done it,” Jon said instead, giving her a sheepish smile. 

Her face twisted in a sneer, “Saving Lady Bolton? I think not. I would be lucky if they did not celebrate my demise or dance on my corpse. Not you, though. You lent a hand. And you did so while suffering from exhaustion and fever, if the maester is to be believed.” The perfect, lady-like mask returned to her face. “Apologies for the outburst, Lord Snow.”

He gave her a lazy shrug. “My ears have long grown used to rougher language than this.”

Her lips twitched with amusement. “Yes, your dear… squire. A boy most crude, but no less clever for it. You are an intriguing man, Jon Snow.”

“I’m just a bastard,” he said earnestly. “A man born on the wrong side of the sheets, of little to no import.”

Sygra Bolton cocked her head as she stepped closer. “And yet you speak and act with the courtesies of a man of high birth. Your skill with the sword is significant… as good as any knight your age, if the men of Castle Black are to be believed. Even Ronard Burley saw that bear and didn’t hesitate for a moment to proclaim you a better hunter and marksman than himself.”

She took another step forward. “And then, there is your claim to being of Stark blood. An interesting claim for someone who looks like Bloodraven writ young, carried Bloodraven’s famous two bows and Bloodraven’s infamous sword.”

Jon’s blood grew cold. His fingers tensed, ready to reach for the sword beside his bed.

“What do you want?” he said coldly.

“I want you,” she said, smiling as she took another step, now hovering over his bed. 

“…What?” He blinked in confusion as Lady Bolton plucked the platter of food from his lap and placed it on the small nightstand to the side. 

She leaned in, her face stopping an inch from his. “Each ruling lady requires a strong, capable man to be her consort.” Her warm breath ghosted over his neck, sending shivers down his spine. His loins stirred. “And this lady has chosen you.”

“Wait.” He shook his head, gently pushing her aside. “Weren’t you betrothed to… uh…”

She gave him a coquettish grin. “I already broke that arrangement with the fat, bow-legged sod. I’m no longer a daughter to be given away but a ruling lady in my own right. My future is in my hand, as is the Dreadfort, and it can be yours, too, Jon Snow.”

“I…” Gods, he wanted to say yes so badly. It was not Winterfell, but everything he had ever wanted: a beautiful wife, a strong keep, rich lands, even if it was the cursed Dreadfort…

He would be a fool to refuse it!

And yet, just as he opened his mouth to agree, no words would leave his throat.

It was not just the name of Bolton that halted him. There would be an irony in having his sons be the Lords of the Dreadfort, aye, but perhaps with time, he could come to accept it. It was not Sygra’s father being something… devilish either. He himself was no longer fully a man.

He closed his eyes, trying to sink into his mind. Sink deeper than the connections he had established with Shadow and his owl. There was a pull… a pull to the south in his very blood. It was the same restlessness he had felt when he had tried to stay in the haunted forest after Bloodraven’s death. It would be easy to ignore at first, but the more he did so, the stronger it would grow. He tried to peer deeper, but all he saw was a pile of crumpled crimson leaves.

Was that what had been driving him to go southward all along?

He palmed the weirwood beads across his neck, but the smooth pale wood beneath his fingers gave him no solace. 

“I must return Dark Sister to King’s Landing,” he lied. “I promised my teacher.”

“You can do that after we wed, too,” she said, eyes narrowing. “I care little for magical swords. There’s no need to give false excuses, bastard.” The disdain in the final word was palpable.

Anger flared up in his throat. Gods, he knew the words were meant to provoke him and his pride, but it stung deeper than he thought it would. 

Clenching his jaw, he shoved it all down. His earlier hesitation drained away. He would never wed a woman who would disrespect him so—if there were a first time, there would be a second, and a third.

“Please leave, Lady Bolton,” he said at last, voice frigid. “A lowly bastard like me cannot possibly lay a hand on a maiden of high standing such as you. I only did my duty. You owe me nothing—”

She slapped him. 

He saw stars for a moment and tasted iron on his tongue. 

Jon’s hand was already reaching for Dark Sister, but a pair of lips aggressively crashed into his mouth as slender fingers reached for his loins. His covers were kicked aside as the maiden unceremoniously hiked her skirt up. Jon… finally caught hold of her wandering hands, and should have pushed her away with ease, but somehow couldn’t find the will to do it. He wanted to kill her, here and now, to squeeze the life out of her throat, caution be damned.

But her mouth would not leave his, and another desire was already raging through him, mingling with that anger.

With a grunt, his tongue fought back as he flipped her onto the bed, his hands clawed at her gown, tearing through the fine fabric. 

***

When he stumbled out of his room, dishevelled, he saw Tormund leaning on the wall outside, a wide smirk plastered all over his face.

“Impressive,” he said with an eager nod. “Half the castle must’ve heard her shriek and moan in pleasure. Four… no, was it five times, Lord Bolton?”

All the rage and lust had drained away, leaving him… hollow on the inside. His whole back ached, too, as Sygra had clawed him like some wild beast to the very end. She had the bite to match, too. He had just… fucked Lady Bolton. Or maybe she had been the one to fuck him. It scarcely made a difference at this point.

He hated her… he wanted to bed her again and have her squirm beneath him. Or maybe moan while riding him again. 

Jon hid his face in his palm. “We’re leaving,” he said darkly. “I want us gone by the hour. Quickly, while she’s still out cold.” 

Author’s Endnote:

Okay. That PoV was longer than I thought it would be. Jon slays something spooky. The male line of Bolton is over… but the female line might just end up being more troublesome. 

Next, we return to King’s Landing and Rhaella being knee-deep in troubles on all sides.