Jon II
295 - AC
The horses dragged the bodies slowly, the ropes taut around the ankles.
Blood trailed behind them in dark, glistening streaks across the frozen ground, steaming faintly in the cold air before freezing into crimson ice.
Jon watched from the saddle of his grey gelding, his breath fogging before his face, the sound of dragging flesh and breaking ice the only noise louder than the wind.
He had seen death before, the Old Nan's tales were full of it, and the training yard had its share of blood but this would have been different, if he had not grown into it on the two years since they left.
These were men who had raided, raped, and murdered.
Jon kept his eyes on the trail of blood until the small village came into view, nestled against the edge of the forest road.
Smoke rose thin from thatched roofs, and the few villagers who had ventured out stared at the approaching riders with wide, wary eyes.
This was the same hamlet where they had stopped weeks earlier, asking after bandits who preyed on travelers.
The smallfolk had been tight-lipped then, fear choking their words. Now, as the Winter Sons rode in, dragging their grisly proof of justice, the villagers emerged from doorways, children clutching skirts, men gripping pitchforks like they might still need to fight.
Robb reined in at the center of the muddy square.
The horses halted, the bodies coming to rest in a tangle of limbs and frozen blood.
He dismounted with the others, his boots sinking into the slush.
The air smelled of woodsmoke, fear and the tang of fresh death.
Robb dismounted last, his cloak swirling in the wind.
He looked every inch the heir, tall for his age, auburn hair dusted with snow, grey eyes steady and unyielding.
He walked to the center of the square, where a cluster of villagers had gathered.
"Bring them to the center." Robb ordered.
Robett Glover dismounted, hauling the ropes to drag the men into a rough line before the village well.
The bandits were stripped of cloaks and boots, left shivering in torn smallclothes.
Blood froze on their skin in dark crusts.
Robb drew a parchment from his saddlebag, the same one he had written by firelight the night before.
"Men of the North," Robb called, voice carrying clear across the square. "These are the crimes of the men before you."
He unrolled the parchment and read in a calm, measured tone that reminded him of Lord Stark.
"Raiding the holdfasts of Lord Umber's near Last Hearth. Stealing livestock and grain meant for winter stores. Murdering a crofter's wife who would not yield her last sack of barley. Burning barns to cover their flight. Assaulting travelers on the kingsroad. For these acts, and for the blood they have spilled, I, Robb of House Stark, heir to Winterfell, pass sentence."
The Winter Sons moved again.
They dragged the men to a flat stone in the center of the square, an ancient execution block, pitted and dark from years of use.
The first bandit tried to crawl away; Torren kicked him back and Robett and another man held the ropes taut while the Bolton heir stepped forward with a short, heavy axe, not the great two-handed thing for chopping wood, but something made for this work.
The first man was forced to his knees. He screamed as Domeric raised the axe.
The blade came down once and cleaned through the neck.
His head rolled, blood jetting across the snow in a bright arc. The body slumped forward.
The second man begged. "Mercy milord, mercy!"
Robb's voice was firm. "Mercy was not shown to the woman you killed."
The axe fell again.
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
The third and fourth died quickly by Ser Jory and Robett.
No speeches, no last words. Just the thud of steel on bone, the wet slump of bodies, the spreading stain on the stone.
An old woman stepped forward, clutching a shawl around her thin shoulders. Her face was lined and weathered, but her eyes shone with something like gratitude mixed with terror.
"Lord Robb," she said, voice trembling. "We... we thank ye. They took my grandson last moon. Said he'd make good sport. We thought the gods had forgotten us."
Robb's jaw tightened and Jon saw the flicker on his eyes filled with anger.
"The gods mayhaps slow," Robb replied, "but the North remembers, my lady, If any trouble returns, send word, we shall see to it."
The villagers nodded, some bowing awkwardly, others simply staring.
A boy no older than himself edged forward, eyes wide at the sight of the bodies.
Jon watched him, remembering how he had once looked at the corpses for the first time the same way.
The Winter Sons had gathered behind Robb. Robett Glover's face was stone, his hand resting on his sword hilt. Domeric watched with that quiet gaze of his pale eyes taking in every detail, blood sprayed across his face as he wiped his war axe and his bastard brother Ramsay, he lingered at the edge, hood pulled low as he passed a piece of meat from the bandits to his bitch hounds, a sight that felt wrong for him.
Jon shifted uncomfortably, he had never liked the bastard of the Dreadfort, he carried an eeriness that made even the coldest winds feel warm by comparison.
Robb tolerated him, perhaps because the Boltons were bannermen, perhaps because the bastard's cruelty served a purpose on these rides but Jon kept his distance.
There was something wrong about the way Ramsay looked at the dead, like a man admiring fine craftsmanship.
Robb turned back to the men.
"We rest here tonight," he said. "See the villagers fed from our supplies if needed but no man takes what isn't offered."
The order was firm and it carried.
The men moved to obey, unloading packs, tending horses, sharing bread and salt with the smallfolk.
Jon helped unload a cart of dried meat and hard cheese, passing loaves to a cluster of children who stared at him like he might vanish if they blinked.
One girl, must have been no more than six, tugged at his cloak. "Are ye a Stark, ser?"
Jon crouched to her level. "I am no ser, my name is Jon and…"
He stopped his own words, what should he say? Was he? Was he not? He didn't know.
"I'm half-brother to Lord Robb."
She studied him solemnly. "Ye don't look half."
Jon chuckled faintly. "Looks can deceive."
As night fell, the village square became a makeshift camp, fires burned low, casting long shadows.
Jon watched him from across the flames, seeing the boy who had once raced him through the godswood now carrying burdens that would crush most men.
They had been doing this for nearly a year now, riding across the North, answering the banners of small lords who had lost sheep, daughters, or silver to bandits.
What had started as a boy's venture, one Robb had begged his father for, had turned into something real.
The Winter Sons were no longer just noble sons learning command, they were hunters.
And Robb… he was no longer just a boy.
Jon remembered when Lady Catelyn had stood on the steps of Winterfell, pale with anger, as her husband told her their son would ride out.
"Winter turns boys to men sooner than we wish," Lord Stark had said, Jon hadn't understood it then but he did now.
Robb sat apart, a parchment on his knee, writing by firelight, he had been planning on sending raven to Last Hearth about the subjugation of the cutthroats.
He moved to sit beside Robb, the fire crackled between them.
"You did well today," He said quietly.
Robb glanced up, firelight dancing in his eyes. "Did I? Or did I just do what Father would have done?"
Jon considered. "You did it your way, that's enough."
Robb looked back at the parchment. "We do what we must."
Jon followed his gaze to the camp, Karstark lads sharpening blades, Glover men sharing ale, laughing low with a pair of guards. "They follow you, that means something."
Robb rubbed his face. "It means they're loyal. For now."
Jon said nothing.
Later as the fires died to embers, Jon lay on a hard straw bed, something a widow woman had given them to sleep in, listening to the wind howl through the pines.
He stared at the stars through the window.
"Tomorrow,"
He turned sharply, to see Robb stirring in his bed.
"Tomorrow," He said, voice calm and even, "We ride for the Wolfswood, there's word of another camp."
Jon hummed an agreement.
"You should rest." Robb said.
And he hummed in agreement once more.
Closing his eyes he let his thoughts settle.
Another day, another outlaw.
—-----
Snow clung to his lashes, melting against the heat of his skin as he swung his sword again and again.
The world had narrowed to breath, blood, and the hiss of steel. The air stank of iron and pine sap.
Around him, men screamed, the harsh, cracking cries of those dying in the cold.
The ambush had come swift and brutal.
One moment, the men were marching through the narrow pass, snow crunching underfoot, the next the trees themselves seemed to come alive, bandits surging from behind drifts and rocks, blades glinting in the pale sun.
"Shields!" Ser Jory bellowed, but it was too late.
Torren Karstark's horse went down with a shriek, an arrow buried in its flank.
Robett Glover's shield caught an axe-blow that split the wood to the rim.
Ramsay laughed like a madman, cutting down a man and kicking him into the snow.
Jon parried a strike, feeling the jolt rattle through his arm, his breath steamed in quick bursts as he fought beside Robb, the two of them back to back in the storm of blades.
He could taste the salt of blood on his lips, hear Domeric shouting something from behind the trees, hear the clash of steel echo like thunder.
The world blurred into movement, men shouting, steel flashing, horses screaming.
And through it all, Robb's voice cut steady, calm, sure. "Hold the line! With me!"
He moved like a shadow then, each strike counted, each motion measured.
Men rallied around him, forming a rough circle in the snow.
For a time, they held.
But then the red-bearded man who led the bandits turned his horse and vanished into the deeper woods, a wolf pelt draped across his shoulders.
"Robb!" Jory shouted. "Let him go! It's a trap!"
But Robb was already moving, cloak flaring behind him like a shadow of flame. Jon didn't think, he only followed.
Branches whipped his face as he spurred his horse through the narrow paths, the snow growing thicker, heavier. He could hear Robb ahead, the rhythm of his mount cutting through the storm, until even that faded into silence.
"Robb?" Jon called, slowing, the woods swallowed his voice whole.
Then he stopped.
The bandit leader sat astride his horse among the trees, a cruel grin splitting his scarred face. Behind him, shapes emerged from the mists, men in rough furs and bone charms, faces painted in ash and soot of the mountain clans.
There were dozens of them.
"Well, look at the wolf pup," the man called, voice rough and full of malice. "Come all this way for glory? Thought you'd find it in the woods?"
Robb's horse stood perfectly still, he did not speak, his eyes were fixed on the man before him.
Jon drew his sword and moved beside him, in every sense alive with dread, the cold seemed to deepen and the silence pressed on his ears.
"Robb," Jon hissed, "ride. Go. I'll hold them, go!"
But Robb did not move.
He only turned slightly and Jon caught his eyes, calm, cold, as if the boy he'd grown up with had vanished into the storm.
"Jon…" Robb said quietly, "Promise me you won't speak of what you're about to see."
Jon blinked. "What are you-"
"Promise me," Robb said again, voice like the low rumble of distant thunder.
Jon's mouth went dry. "…I promise."
Robb nodded once and slowly drew his sword.
For a moment, he thought it was a trick of the light but then the blade began to shimmer and ripple against the air as a dark flame licked along the steel, not red or gold, but black, deeper than shadow.
The snow hissed where it touched.
The bandit leader barked a laugh. "Tricks, is it? The boy's gone mad."
Robb closed his eyes, the blade brought forth and he began to whisper.
The words were not of the North, nor the Old Tongue, nor anything Jon had ever heard.
They were guttural, cracking, like the sound of ice splitting on a frozen lake.
The ground seemed to pulse beneath them.
The snow stirred.
It began as a shiver in the air, a breath, then a wind, the mist thickened, curling around them in slow, deliberate motions, shapes flickered in the white, shadows without source.
Jon turned, searching.
"Robb!" he shouted, but his voice was swallowed.
Then came the first scream.
A bandit staggered back from the mist, clutching at his throat, eyes wide with terror before something unseen dragged him down.
Another turned to flee, but a blur passed through him, leaving him in pieces in the snow.
The mist boiled and figures moved within, they were tall, lean, with glowing gray eyes that pulsed like dying embers.
They darted through the fog, silent as ghosts, their movements too quick to follow.
The air filled with the sound of steel meeting flesh, bones cracking, and something else, something wrong, like whispers at the edge of hearing.
Jon's stomach turned as he saw one of the creatures pass through a man like smoke, leaving his body crumpled and blackened, as though the life had been burned out of him, black blood oozing from his eyes and nose and he fell.
The bandit leader screamed orders, his voice cracking and his men swung wildly but their blades cut only air.
The mist seemed to come alive, responding to Robb's low, steady chanting.
Jon stumbled back, his breath ragged, sword slipping in his grip.
The cold was unbearable now, sinking into his bones, he thought he saw faces in the fog, men he knew, dead long ago.
Grey eyes, pale skin, whispering words he could not understand.
It was a nightmare of sound and motion.
He could no longer tell where Robb stood.
The shadows seemed to coil and uncoil with every beat of his heart.
But then a silence befell.
Mist began to thin and slowly, painfully, the white retreated.
Bodies lay all around, bandits and mountain men were torn apart, scattered like broken dolls.
The ground beneath them was black with blood.
He stood shaking, sword heavy in his hand. His breath came in short gasps, every sound, the creak of a branch, the sigh of wind, felt too loud, too real.
Then, through the thinning mist, Robb appeared.
He walked slowly, his sword dragging a thin trail in the snow.
The black flame had died, leaving the steel dark and dull, his cloak hung heavy with blood and his hair clung to his brow.
His eyes… they were pools of black ink, dripping down his face like the red on the weirwoods in the dim light.
Jon couldn't speak.
Robb stopped before him, the mist curling at his feet. For a long moment, he said nothing as he sheathed his sword with slow and deliberate care.
"Robb…" Jon whispered, voice shaking. "What—what was that?"
Robb only looked at him, the faint gray light faded from his eyes, leaving behind the stillness of deep water.
His face was calm again, eerily calm, as if the storm had passed through him and left only silence in its wake.
"Take me home," he said softly.
Jon rushed ahead as he saw Robb's eyes rolled back and he collapsed into the snow.
The black sword slipped from his hand, the steel sinking halfway into the frost with a dull thud.
"Robb!" Jon's voice tore through the quiet.
He stumbled forward, boots crunching over the frozen ground, dropping to his knees beside his brother.
For a moment, panic flared hot in his chest, the same terror that had gripped him once before, back in the Wolfswood, when he'd found Robb pale and still beneath the trees.
But this time, his brother's chest rose and fell. His breath came slow and steady, soft mist curling from his lips. He hadn't fallen. Only sleeping.
Jon let out a shaking breath, relief and confusion mingling like frost and flame.
The air still reeked of iron and ash, and the snow around them was dark with blood.
He glanced around once more, the forest was silent now, the mist gone, the bodies still.
With careful hands, he lifted Robb by his cloak and dragged him to his horse.
The boy was heavier than he remembered, limp with exhaustion.
He pulled him into the saddle, steadying him with one arm before climbing up behind.
They rode through the dead woods in silence, the snow whispering under hooves.
Every tree seemed to lean closer, watching and air hung thick with something unseen, something that hummed low in the bones.
His eyes flicked toward Robb again and again as they rode, the faint color returning to his cheeks, his hair darkened with blood and melting snow, he looked peaceful now.
Jon gripped the reins tighter, his knuckles white against the leather. His breath came out as a trembling mist.
"What have you become, brother?" he whispered to the cold.