So i just realized that I messed up the timeline with a simple sentence. The King is NOT coming to Winterfell, now. Not yet, at least. Just took a look back through and realized my mistake. Its corrcted now. sorry. I still can't believe I pumped this out within another week. Enjoy!

Jon moved as fast as a winter wind. Over hills, moors, and woods, his feet carried him without fail. He did not tire or falter as he leapt over streams and crossed through fields. No sane man would just go blindly running across the North at night, but Jon was not blind nor a mere man. His blue eyes guided him through the dark all the way into Bolton lands. At night, he simply ran, not stopping for anyone or anything. During the day, he skirted around patrols and those who would stop him. He glided through the Sheepshead Hills and reached Weeping Water in three days after a dead sprint across the North.

Jon did not know if the Bolton Bastard would even be there, but he did know that Ramsay had been born there and that he hunted peasant girls with a pack of hounds along with a group called the Bastard's Boys. It was disgusting that Roose Bolton allowed it to continue. If the monster was not at the settlement by the river, he would head straight for the Dreadfort. Jon had been debating killing not only Ramsay, but his father as well. The North would be better off without House Bolton as a whole. The Bolton's had always coveted the position of the Starks; fought against them for hundreds of years for the right to rule the North. Roose Bolton was the one who had wielded the knife that ended Robb's life at the Red Wedding. The son of a bitch all but jumped at the chance to rule the North and he took it from the King he'd sworn himself too. Jon was confident enough in his newfound power that he could probably take on the entirety of the Dreadfort as a whole. One White Walker could take an entire castle on its own; he'd seen it done before. He could scale the walls in the dead of night, and no one would be able to stop him from cutting down all that stood in his way to get to Roose Bolton. Or he could walk straight through the front gates and slaughter everyone and everything that tried to stop him. The line of Bolton ended with Roose and Ramsay. If he took their heads, than no more threat would come to House Stark from the Flayed Man.

In the back of Jon's mind, he knew this line of thinking was wrong, but he could not bring himself to care. There would be no honor in this, no, but there would be justice and vengeance, and after all Jon had been through, those meant more to him than honor ever did.

It was the only thing he had left.

Jon snarled to himself as he slogged over the half-frozen stones of the river. He didn't care how long it took. He would find Ramsay Snow and put him down like the mad dog he was. The same went for the bastard's father, along with the Ironborn, the Lannisters, the Freys, Baelish, the Others; he would kill all of them if he had to! He would secure his family's safety, end the threat beyond the Wall, and after that, he was done with Westeros!

Jon had been slinking around the dreary mills and huts dotting along Weeping Water for most of the day. He'd received wary stares from nearly all of the smallfolk, all of whose flames flickered dimly with fear. Seven hells, the whole land seemed tainted by fear. That fear intensified when the sound of barking dogs echoed through the trees. Jon didn't think, he just moved. The wind blew cold as he made for the trees; searching with eyes as blue as the sky. He tracked the barking deep into the woods, and stopped dead as a flickering little heart burst free from the tree line. It was a girl, no older than four and ten and naked as the day she was born. Her face was white with terror and her eyes red from tears. Scratches and scrapes dotted her skin, and blood ran from a wound on her right calf. She all but slammed into him, grasping at his collar and begging through tears of terror for help.

The hounds burst from the brush, then. Nine of them, all great, black mastiffs that charged when they saw them. The girl screamed. She was only a child; her hair long and black, with a dimple on her right cheek. Her brown eyes were wide with complete and utter panic and fear. Jon grabbed her and pushed her behind him. She stumbled, but did not fall. The dogs bayed and howled, but as they neared, Jon stepped forward and let loose the howling storm inside him. Some of the hounds checked their charge, whimpering as cold blanketed the area and frost coated the ground, but the ones with foaming jaws wide and white eyes rolling in their head, the ones vicious enough to attack something that screamed DEATH to their senses, those were the ones Jon had to kill first. His backfist caved the first one's skull like a rotten gourd. The second he kicked so hard that it flew straight into the trunk of a thick tree with a yelp and landed unmoving. The third tried to bite his leg, but he stomped down on its neck and ended its life with a wet snap. The remaining dogs barked and panted clouds of steam into the freezing air, but they kept their distance.

Jon turned and barked "Go!" at the girl. She stared at his face beneath his cowl, her features frozen in a mask of fear and awe, and ran. Jon watched her go and turned around just in time to catch an arrow in his gut. The head broke apart on impact and the shaft bounced off him. Jon held back his snarl as a billowing horse galloped into the clearing and reared at the sight of him.

"Easy, Blood, easy!" Came the voice of the rider as he calmed his mount; smooth as an oiled dagger and sickening as poison. Eyes like dirty chips of ice stared at him, and a slimy grin split a pale face. "Well, well..." Ramsay Snow crooned, "What have we here?" The monster adjusted the grip of his hunting bow and dismounted.

Jon's entire world narrowed in on the Bolton bastard. The blood thundered in his ears, his nostrils flared, and his right hand twitched violently for want of a sword. This was the depraved monster that had raped and brutalized Sansa. This was the craven cur that shot down his baby brother. This was the sadistic creature that took pleasure in killing and torture. None of that mattered any longer, however, because Ramsay Snow was going to die this day, and Jon was going to kill him.

Ramsay's pale eyes roamed over Jon's cloaked frame and his cowering dogs, before he stopped when he saw the corpses of the hounds. "You killed my dogs." Ramsay stated in a calm, almost friendly tone of voice that did absolutely nothing to hide the menace and madness dancing in his eyes. Jon said nothing, but glared into those eyes from beneath his hood. "Do you know who I am?" The bastard crowed, "I am Ramsay, of house Bolton!" Ramsay suddenly spotted his destroyed arrow lying on the ground and frowned.

"But you're not a Bolton," Jon said, cold as death. "You're a Snow."

Ramsay's face went blank.

"What's the matter, bastard?" Jon sneered. There was an irony in here somewhere, Jon knew. He, the secret heir to the Iron Throne raised as a bastard, taunting someone who embodied every negative stereotype bastardry entailed in the eyes of the world.

Ramsay's mounting fury coincided with the plummeting temperature, not that Ramsay seemed to notice. 'Good.' thought Jon. He wanted to get the monster angry. He wanted him to attack and rage and scream so that Jon could knock him to the ground when he came at him, which looked to be soon. Ramsay's whole face seemed to be quivering in rage. Jon figured that the bastard was not used to being insulted in such a manner. He probably killed or maimed anyone who so much as looked at him crossly. Jon wondered what his expression would be when Ramsay realized he had no chance of winning. The thought made him smile.

Ramsay's own smile was as sick and twisted as the flame of his soul when he said, "I don't care who you are. Your name doesn't matter to me, because when I'm done with you, it will be Reek! How's that sound, hmm? Reek! It rhymes with freak!"

With that said, Jon lifted his head to stare directly into Ramsay's eyes and let the Bolton bastard see the glowing blue burning underneath his cowl.

"No." Jon denied, "I am going to be the one who kills you."

To his credit, Ramsay only paused and tilted his head to the side. He said, "Well...that's interesting." Then he yelled out to his hounds, "Rip him! Rip him!"

Spurred by their master, they charged. Ramsay watched with a savage glee that quickly turned to surprise when Jon's hand reached into the folds of his cloak and ripped free the blade he'd kept tied to his side with a loop of leather. He'd modeled it after Longclaw. Jon had wielded that blade for so long, he could recall every inch of that sword from tip to pommel. The shape, length, width, how it felt in his hands when he swung it; he knew every detail of the weapon gifted to him by Jeor Mormont.

Except the blade he now bore was not made of Valaryian steel or bore a wolf's head pommel. A bastard sword in length and design, yes, but that was where the similarities with the ancestral sword of House Mormont ended. It was razor thin and completely clear as if it was made of ice or crystal, but was neither, and slashed through Ramsay's hounds like a hot knife through butter.

At first, Jon had loathed the idea of wielding a weapon of the White-Walkers; still did, to a degree, but quickly found out he needed one out of pure necessity. When he first left Winterfell, he made sure to take a sword from the armory. It had been good, castle-forged steel and eventually froze and shattered in his icy grip the first time he used it. He acquired another, but it soon met the same fate. Jon could no longer wield the metal weapons of man without destroying them, no matter what he tried. For a while, he relied on his brute strength. The strength of a White-Walker equaled the strength of five men, and Jon's blows could crack stone and shatter solid steel, but he hated the brutality needed to kill with fists alone and longed for a sword he could swing. Soon, the echoes of the Night King began to whisper an answer. Jon resisted at first. Each time he delved deeper into the Night King's power, he felt a part of himself slip away. His mind was so consumed with magic and memories that he'd begun to forget just who or what he was at times. Was he Jon Snow or Aegon Targaryen? Bastard or king? Fire or ice? Man or monster? Night or North? With each passing day, he changed in ways he did not know he could return from. Yet, he still made the sword. He was no pugilist, and he fought better with a sword in hand. So, he had spent an entire night in Tumbledown Tower with his hands cupped in front of him while focusing the power of the Others between them to form the blade he now held.

Jon's cloak was splattered with dog blood and frozen droplets of red covered his ice blade after he killed all the hounds and turned back to Ramsay, who was no longer smiling. Jon also took an arrow to the face when he did so. The arrowhead shattered into pieces against his skin and the second practically bounced off his chest. Jon side-stepped the third arrow aimed for his groin and advanced on the bastard. Ramsay's eyes bulged and he dropped his bow completely in favor of mounting his agitated horse. Before he got so much as a foot in the stirrup, Jon's arm whipped forward and Ramsay's horse keeled over with the ice blade imbedded halfway in it's throat. Ramsay snarled as his horse nearly fell over on top of him and jumped out of the way of his fallen steed. Jon was nearly on top of him as well, but instead of running, Ramsay pulled a skinning knife from his belt and faced Jon.

Jon had to give the bastard his due; he was fearless. He was also stupid in that regard. Fear is what helped keep a man alive in moments like this. Ramsay allowed Jon to get within striking range before lashing out. Jon caught the blade before it so much grazed his neck and squeezed. It burst into a hundred pieces. They both watched the frozen shards fell to the forest floor. Jon looked up and locked eyes with Ramsay. "How sharp are your blades now, bastard?" Jon intoned lowly. Then he backhanded Ramsay so hard that his feet left the ground, and the second he hit the dirt, Jon was on him.

Jon fell atop Ramsay with a cry and began raining down blow after blow. Ramsay slapped and clawed at his neck and eyes, but Jon felt nothing and bit his hand like a wolf, breaking a few fingers as he continued to punch, and punch, and punch, with no Sansa witnessing the savagery to make him stop this time. Ramsay's blood stained his cloak now, along with his fists and his face. Ramsay's face was bloody too, so bloody that it looked like an open wound. His nose was broken and squashed flat, his one eye became a swollen-shut ruin, and many of his teeth had broken and fallen into his throat. Jon did not stop. The knowledge of what this creature did to his family and to the North kept running around and around in his head.

He raped my sister! He killed my brother!

Even as Ramsay's struggles weakened, Jon kept battering him over and over again with a wellspring of hate and rage fueling every blow.

He raped my sister! He killed my brother!

Even when the choked gurgles ceased completely and Ramsay's body went limp, Jon did not stop.

HE RAPED MY SISTER! HE KILLED MY BROTHER!

"STOP!"

Jon's fist, pulled back for another strike, froze in place at the sound of the voice. Slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder. Two armed men in Bolton livery were standing there. Behind them were a gathering of smallfolk, most likely from the nearby village. Among them was the girl he'd saved, covered by a woolen blanket. When Jon tuned to look at them, the guardsmen's eyes went wide and gasps of fear echoed through the trees. The guards drew their swords. "By the gods!" One exclaimed. The other yelled "Stand up! Stand up, slowly!" His black cloak was coated in blood, along with his face and fists. His cowl had fallen back to reveal his bloodstained visage of glowing blue eyes and snow white hair. That particular change started soon after he left Winterfell. No longer black, it hung freely around his shoulders in a curly mane. His beard and eyebrows had begun to change color as well. What would change next, he wondered. Would he eyes become permanently blue? Would his skin turn white and stretch taut over his bones? Or perhaps to blue ice, and horns would sprout from his head. Jon slowly rose to his feet and glanced at the frightened and anxious crowd that had the potential to become a mob. Even the girl he had saved looked frightened and cowered with wide eyes. One wrong move and they would either attack him or flee. Judging from the wood axes and shovels held with deadly intent, Jon betted on the latter. Unwillingly, his gaze swept over the corpses he'd created, and the intent made its presence known once more.

"Raise them!"

"No!" He hissed under his breath.

"RAISE THEM!"

It was more powerful then intent. It was an instinct; an urge, a drive, even, to stretch his power over the corpse and bid them to rise, to kill-

"No!" Jon's snarled once more. Then, he moved. The people shouted in alarm and the guards called for him to stop, but Jon was a dark wind that swept over Ramsay's dead horse to rip his ice blade free before taking off into the trees as fast as he could. The shocked exclamations that echoed behind him quickly faded into the distance as he rushed through the forest. He ran and ran until he collapsed on the western banks of Weeping Water, furthest from the Dreadfort and closer to the sea. Jon felt like he had to vomit. He had just beaten a man to death. That man had been Ramsay fucking Snow, yes, but still. He could have killed him quickly and vanished into the trees before anyone came across him, and be done with it. Instead, he had drawn it out. Jon wanted to make the sadistic bastard suffer; to punish him for things Ramsay had not even done yet. Just seeing his pale eyes and evil leer made a black tide of hate rise up and consume him. Now, just under a dozen people saw how he had turned a person's face into a bloody ruin. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be swift, merciless, and above all, practical. There was no room for mistakes. One of the benefits Jon possessed by crafting himself as a rumor was that he was just that; a rumor. Something to ward of those who did ill will. Now, the Bolton's would be on high alert once word got back to Roose. Ravens would fly and people would be actively hunting for him. Idly, Jon wondered if Ramsay had survived. He hoped not.

Jon dipped a hand into the slow-moving river and watched the current wash away the red mess coating his skin. He began to scrub at his arms and face to remove as much as he could. Why risk leaving a scent for hounds to track him by? He waded into the shallow water, immune to the cold, and let the blood wash from his clothes and skin. A steady trail of pinkish-red soon flowed downstream from where Jon stood. He watched it disappear and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the water. Blue eyes, white hair; he certainly looked a great deal like the monsters he'd fought in his memories.

"Maybe I'm the monster, now." He heard himself mutter.

He felt the eyes on him then. His spine stiffened. The sensation was familiar, heightened by his supernatural senses. He had learned to sense it in the past, when Bran was watching over him. Now, the magic behind those eyes stood out like someone lit a bonfire behind him. Slowly, Jon turned in the frigid water to glare at the black raven perched on the riverbank, watching him.

"Hello, Three-Eyed-Raven." Jon growled low in his throat.

His eyes burned blue and he looked further into the eyes of the raven saw the man behind them. Jon sneered.

"Or should I say, Bloodraven?"

I'm not gonna say cliffhanger...but cliffhanger.

I wanted to add different perspectives from other characters but I couldn't create the scenes and dialogue I wanted. It just didn't go that way, I guess. I just kept writing and this is the result. I did promise you Weeping Water and I delivered, so cookie 4 me! This chapter also was a challenge to write. There was a lot of little things that I changed around; sentences, dialogue, words and such. I wanted to at least try to get it out in another week, and I'm satisfied with how this tapers off. It's going to open up more for the coming chapters and expand on how Jon's presence has changed things. And trust me; Jon has changed things big-time!

A wild Bloodraven appears! (Speaking of blood, in the books, Ramsay has a horse named Blood so he wasn't just saying Blood for no reason up there.) Yeah, Brynden Rivers is here and spying on Jon. Well, trying to at least. Jon basically being a White-Walker south of the Wall stood out to the greenseer like a sore thumb. He's known about Jon ever since he came back, but part of the reason (in my mind) he hasn't begun watching him earlier is because Jon's been constantly moving and is passively resisting Brynden's Eyes. That, and other reasons that shall be explained later. I don't really have much else to say for this one. Ramsay is dead...or is he? Jon beating the living shit out of him is going to make waves, that for certain. I look forward to writing said waves!

Also, I am once again astounded at how many of you like this. Thank you all, all of you that Fav'd, Follow'd, and Review'd and the ones that will Fav, Follow, and Review. Please tell me what you think of the story so far and what you think might happen next! Constructive Criticism is very much welcome. Reviews are what keeps me going. I'd love to hear what you all have to say!

1 Review=1 facepunch to Ramsay Snow.

Apostrophes ftw!

Peace!