Hearing the enemy call out his name, Jon froze for a second, confused.
That brief pause was enough for his killing intent to dissipate. Ghost, sensing his master's hesitation, paused mid-lunge, his massive jaws hovering inches from the archer's throat.
Jon stepped forward, kicking the man onto his back and pressing the cold steel of his longsword against the archer's neck.
In the gloom of the forest, the two adversaries finally got a good look at each other.
Jon squinted at the lean figure, struggling to place him. But the archer clearly knew exactly who was chasing him—otherwise, he wouldn't have screamed Jon's name.
Though pinned to the ground, the archer lay like a coiled spring, his body tense with lethal potential. He was wiry, dressed in a worn leather vest. His yew longbow, old but polished to a shine with oil and care, lay fallen beside him.
His most striking feature was a mop of unruly, reddish-brown curls that gave him a wild, roguish look. But it was his eyes that truly commanded attention. Even with a sword at his throat, his gaze was sharp, locking onto Jon like a hawk sighting prey.
Those eyes were a piercing, light brown—focused, bright, and dangerous. They held none of the arrogance of a noble sportsman, only the cold calculation of a hunter and a supreme, almost instinctive confidence in his own skill.
His face was young but weathered, his skin a deep honey-bronze, kissed by the harsh desert sun.
Seeing that distinct Dornish complexion, Jon suddenly realized who he was looking at. This was Anguy the Archer, the Dornishman he had met briefly during the Hand's Tourney.
Back then, they were competitors in a game. Who would have thought their next meeting would be as enemies in the dark?
If Jon counted the night raid outside Tampa—where Anguy had been hired to assassinate Lady Anya—this was their third encounter.
Months ago, Anguy had been high-spirited, winning coin and glory with his bow. Now, the sharpshooter had fallen from a celebrated freelancer to a sellsword, and finally, to a common bandit.
Jon didn't have time to ask for his life story. His priority was the girls.
After a quick interrogation, Jon didn't waste time verifying Anguy's confession. He gagged the archer with a strip of cloth and bound him tightly to a tree.
If Anguy was telling the truth, Jon and Ghost could handle the remaining kidnappers. If he was lying, Anguy would rot here as repayment.
Jon and Ghost sprinted out of the dense woods, emerging into a relatively open clearing.
There they were.
Five or six bandits were marching ahead. Slung over their shoulders were two slender figures—Sansa and Margaery.
Jon pushed his Spirit perception to the absolute limit. Veins bulged on his forehead as his senses expanded, taking in everything within a hundred paces—every rustle of leaves, every chirp of insects.
In this heightened state, the world turned into a monochrome landscape of shadows and light. The bandits' torches flared like blinding suns in his mind's eye, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut.
Suddenly, his perspective shifted. For a split second, he was Ghost. He felt the hunger, saw the pulsing veins in the bandits' necks, felt the urge to tear.
The connection snapped as Jon's concentration wavered. When he opened his eyes, Ghost was already moving.
Like a phantom of the night, the Direwolf rose silently behind the rearmost bandit and placed his massive paws on the man's shoulders.
Snap.
Blood sprayed. The poor wretch didn't even have time to scream before his throat was torn out.
Jon didn't hesitate. As Ghost lunged for his second target, Jon charged, his sword flashing in the torchlight as he cut down a third bandit.
By the time the lead bandit realized they were under attack, half his crew was dead.
Ghost howled, and two more bandits fell to claws and steel.
Now, only three remained.
In a fair fight, Jon would have finished them in seconds. But this wasn't a fair fight.
Seeing their comrades fall, the remaining bandits stopped. They spun around, using the girls as human shields.
Daggers flashed, pressing against the pale, swan-like necks of Sansa Stark and Margaery Tyrell.
"Hold your ground, Lord Snow!" the leader barked from behind his men. "Take one more step, and these pretty little birds die with us!"
He was using his own men and the girls as a meat shield, terrified of the white beast and the swordsman.
Jon froze. He wanted to rush them, but the threat was real.
To prove their point, the bandits pressed their blades harder. A thin line of crimson appeared on both girls' throats, trickling slowly down their skin.
Jon knew these men were professionals. They had infiltrated a camp of hundreds to kidnap high-value targets. He couldn't gamble with the girls' lives.
Jon took a deliberate step back, sheathing his sword slightly to show compliance.
"Enough!" Jon shouted. "As long as you do not harm them, we can negotiate."
He emphasized the words heavily, making it clear: Keep them alive, and you might live too.
But as he spoke, Jon recalled something Anguy had muttered during the interrogation. These men weren't just after gold.
That terrified him.
If they were hired by someone like Littlefinger—someone who thrived on chaos—then their goal might not be ransom. Their goal might be to cause a tragedy that would plunge the realm into war. If that was the case, Jon was in deep trouble.
Despite the tension knotting his stomach, Jon kept his face stone-cold, channeling the years he spent as the brooding "Bastard of Winterfell." He had to stay calm to negotiate.
The two girls looked at him with very different expressions.
Sansa, though terrified, looked at Jon with trust. He was a Stark. He was her brother. He had saved her from Joffrey's blade once before, and she believed he would do it again.