Jon had been traveling for weeks, moving as far as his power would allow him during the day. It was several months since he had last seen Winterfell. His clothes had begun to get worn, his hair had grown almost to the back of his neck, becoming matted in places now that he went without frequent bathing. His facial hair had never been great even when he attempted to let it grow back in Winterfell. But now it was longer, his stubble and growth of hairs somewhat patchy and uneven. He may be trying to become and look the part of a man now but he was still not fully grown into it yet.
He was moving through the land of Roose Bolton. He remembered from his lessons with Maester Luwin that the words of House Bolton were officially Our Blades Are Sharp but much like the Lannisters of the south, their house was better known by a saying they used: A flayed man holds no secrets
House Bolton was the once enemy of House Stark. The one House who could've possibly challenged for control of the North and won it. Notorious for the ruthless lengths they had been willing to go to destroy their enemies before at last bending the knee to the Starks. He didn't think it was entirely his imagination that the land here felt different from the rest of the North, something in the air that he hadn't felt in Winterfell, in White Harbor or in Hornwood. Perhaps it was a reflection of the family legacies that had come before Roose that he felt.
Jon wondered to himself why anyone would be so proud of a history of brutality. Of flaying men alive and (if Old Nan's stories were in any way true) wearing the skins of their enemies as cloaks.
He had asked his father what could've driven men to do such a thing: to take pride in it not once, but consistently. Generation after generation.
His father had answered that it was because they could. Jon hadn't understood what he'd meant by that, and so had asked him to clarify. What his father had told him was what Jon thought about now that he was approaching the area of Last Lake, wondering if what his father had told him held for the Grimwell Marauders.
"Are you certain you wish to understand?" His father asked, a priest's voice echoing loud and clear like one of the more elaborate crystal pieces of a Septon headdress had struck a bell through the campsite as the aroma of cooked rabbit wafted in the air, Jon's meager dinner having long since been consumed.
"I do." Jon had said, his piece of hard bread softened somewhat by a careful application of heat from his hands. He had found that if he heated the hard bread he had taken when he left Winterfell instead of setting it aflame, he could soften it somewhat, allowing it an easier passage to his still somewhat grumbling stomach.
"Humans as a whole do what it takes for them to ensure they survive. It is a core part of their identity. You make rituals and ideas such as ourselves to worship inside your mind, and when you do you try to give us distinctly human characteristics. You want something greater to value of your lives and existences. To desire to see your happiness achieved. Or to even simply care about helping you survive the darkness inherent in your perception of the world that surrounds you." His father said, his every word measured yet flowing like a well-practiced favorite sermon.
Jon wondered to himself if this way of speaking truly came from his father having been a priest in a former life or if it was a subject that he'd thought about numerous times before. After all, if what his father had told him about gods was true, than essentially humans were the reasons the gods existed and sometimes acted as they did.
"You create these restrictions for yourselves so that you can be allowed to survive as you allow others of your race to. But then you begin to call them true, you tell yourselves that they mean something outside of a reflection of your humanity. That they are somehow the same for anything that is to be considered right or good or desirable or real. But that is not so. The rules you create are a reflection of your people as a whole. The rituals you imagine are a reflection of your view of the world. And which of the myriad that become ingrained in you are a reflection of your understanding of both." His father continued as Jon settled back against his rolled up blanket with carefully attentive grey eyes.
The fire appeared to flicker briefly toward him and Jon thought he saw a momentary flash of slit pupils within yellow eyes at the core of the dancing orange and red.
"Many humans make a rule not to devour the flesh of other humans, living or dead. And for the most part other humans choose to obey this rule. But when a group of them is starving in the desert and they devour their dead in order to survive another moment, they discard that rule because now it is a question of their own life or the principles of other humans. Does that mean they routinely feast on the meat of other men before or since?" R'hllor paused here, the only sound from the surroundings the crackle of the flames. Even the wind itself had died down as though it desired to hear the many tongued god's explanation. "No. But it means they understand that the rule of not devouring other humans was a self-imposed chain upon themselves and others of their species. One they broke in order to survive. And one they hope to live long enough to shackle themselves to again."
"And how does this apply to the Boltons?" Jon asked, unsure what connection he was meant to be making here. There were exceptions to many things in extreme circumstances certainly but how did that explain the Boltons proudly flaunting such concepts of human decency and basic honor as they had when they fought the Starks?
"Imagine that you are facing an opponent on the battlefield young spark." His father said, his voice shifting to that of a roughhewn man that sounded what Jon had imagined a wildling would as a child. "This opponent you face is your equal in every way. In strength, in speed, in technique and in cleverness. But: there is one thing he absolutely will not do. He absolutely will not wear armor upon his legs. He bears a breastplate. A standard shield. A masterful blade. A helmet and bracers fit for a king. But from the waist down, he will only wear simple leather trousers. Is he more or less difficult to defeat?" The fire asked him.
Jon pondered for a few moments, brow furrowed as he mulled the question over.
After another minute or so had passed, he spoke.
"It depends upon why he is unarmored. If he is simply that overconfident, than he is simpler to defeat. If he knows something of his own abilities or the terrain I do not, he is more difficult to defeat." Jon was sure of himself as he finished his answer.
"He does so for neither reason." His father answered, a smirk in his tone. Jon's brow furrowed in further confusion. "He does this because it is a restriction placed on him when he marches into battle and he obeys it no matter the consequences."
Jon's mouth fell open a small amount in confusion. "Than he is simple to defeat. If he doesn't have the self-preservation to armor himself or guard against it, than he won't defend even if it is directly attacked."
"What you saw as dishonorable, the Boltons likely saw as attacking leather armor." R'hllor concluded aloud. "After all, if a man is honorable: that same honor will place restrictions on what he does. And that makes his vulnerabilities and weaknesses as obvious as leather armor amidst steel plate does it not?"
Jon closed his mouth even as his eyes widened in astonishment. He had never looked upon honor as a weakness before and didn't like the implications of what his father was suggesting.
"That does not make it right that they did such things!" Jon instantly shot back, unwilling to say the Boltons had acted well by descending into barbaric behavior.
"When did we say anything about right child?" R'hllor asked rhetorically, his voice softening until it sounded frail and wispy as a browned leaf. "All we have told you is that they were not willing to chain themselves with the same self-imposed bindings your Stark ancestors were. That is neither right nor wrong. It simply is."
"Your ancestors prevailed yes." R'hllor continued before Jon could interrupt. "But that does not make them any greater or more righteous. It simply means they compensated for their chains better than the Boltons could take advantage of them."
Jon sat in silence as he attempted to absorb his father's words. First gods and men alike were not to be fully trusted and now even concepts such as righteousness and honor could be deadly handicaps? It seemed a very cynical, lonely and above all brutal way to look at the world.
"That seems…inhuman." Jon finally said as the fire continued merrily dancing.
"To your perception perhaps." The wispy voice countered. "Not so to us. We see it as an embrace of your humanity."
"How?" Jon questioned, his right eyebrow involuntarily rising like a curtain to reveal his skepticism.
"Think on it when you have confronted these Grimwell men. Then tell us what you think." The disembodied god answered as his presence left the fire.
Jon wondered to himself for days after.
He wondered on the meaning of R'hllor's cryptic words of nothing being true in the world of the divine or the mundane.
He wondered on the purpose behind R'hllor's proclamation of an unlimited existence outside the common binds of law and decency.
But eventually he had to conclude that he was unlikely to understand by ruminating over the potential answers endlessly. As he made his way closer and closer to the Last Lake, he practiced more of his powers, experimenting with the duration of the flames he wielded. He could now manage to create brief flashes of bright fire that lasted less than a moment consistently whenever he pointed his hands. He found that if he had dirt, wood chips, grass or other loose but solid material in his hand, he could light it even brighter when he threw it.
To his surprise, the best material for this little trick of his turned out to be ash. He had thought that maybe since it was the remains of what had already been burned that it wouldn't serve very well. But then he thought on it and reflected that perhaps his father's heritage allowed him to connect on a deeper level with things that had already been touched by fire and so could let him put more power into the fire itself instead of having to create his own path.
It was something else to ponder in any case.
The sun was beginning to set as he approached the Last Lake now. He waited for the sun to fade just beyond the horizon as the darkness of night encroached the blue sky overhead like blood running darkly through a still pool of water.
As he opened his eyes, he was now seeing using both his human sight and the vision that allowed him to glimpse the inner fires and subsequent heat of his surroundings. The environment had been of middling temperature during the day, the sun a blinding spot overhead. But now it was already cooling rapidly, the former riot of oranges and yellows with the occasional glimpse of green and blue was now quickly becoming an ocean of lighter and darker blues with green and black splashes everywhere occasionally interspersed with the faint red flicker of an errant animal.
All except for the island of light he glimpsed in the distance.
Jon quickly moved toward the light, crouching as he moved across the somewhat open plain. He instinctively evened his breathing, arms steadying him as he picked up speed. As he came closer his eyes told him that there weren't just Grimwell bandits, there were smallfolk here as well. A small group to be sure, being held in a small area by the lake. Two men by the pen near the lake while one guarded them from making it into the camp itself.
The accommodations were somewhat haphazard: for prisoner and bandit alike.
The tents and crude awnings were obviously for the outlawed men; Jon could glimpse a few of them examining their weapons, others moving just beyond the range of his human vision as shadows but highlighted in bright hues with his fire sight. He judged the camp to be a rough horseshoe shape, the tents forming a semicircle. He slowed his pace bit by bit, creeping closer and closer. His heart was racing in anticipation as his mind ran equally fast to try and figure out what he was seeing here.
He could understand the Grimwell men being here. But why where there small folk in this place, penned in and looking thoroughly miserable? Were they kidnap victims of these bandits who hadn't managed to escape their notice while they made their way to the lands of the other noble houses of the north?
As he came within sight of the first patrolling bandit, John could make out the green paint on him that he remembered Tarik and his companions had adorning their bodies. The smell of cooking meat somewhere in the camp made Jon's stomach roil somewhat as he forced himself not to think about Tarik and the burning corpses he had left behind when he had first discovered this group's existence.
He snuck up behind the man, slowly drawing his dagger from its sheath as the bandit came to a stop near the edge of a tent.
Jon's reflexes had been improved over the course of his journey here from hunting and constant practice under his father's crackling presence in the flames. Now he knew what he was doing. In less than the blink of an eye, he had sprung up behind the green painted man to firmly clamp his left hand over his mouth before using his right hand to press the dagger to his throat.
Jon could see the pulse in the side of the man's neck as his increased heart rate made his body burn a bit brighter in the night.
"I'm going to ask you some simple questions now." He hissed in the man's ear. He applied a slight increase of pressure on the knife to the taut skin of the man's throat, managing to draw a small thin line of red. He ignored the stench of sweat and grime that he could feel even through the layers through his clothes it was caked on so thoroughly to the man's boiled hide armor.
"You're going to blink once for yes, twice for no." He continued. "Do you understand me?"
The man's brown eyes blinked once.
"Glad to hear it." Jon said, shuffling them back from the camp so there would be less chance one of his comrades would stumble across them.
"Now then, is your leader here in the camp?" Jon asked.
Blink.
"Is he the one who instructed you to spy on the other houses of the North?" Jon asked.
Blink.
"Is he the heir to a Northern house?" Jon asked.
Blink. Blink.
Jon was taken aback for a moment. If it wasn't a lord officially doing this, what would it benefit these men to study the other Northern Houses? They couldn't be sure of any sort of reward for it, not unless-
"Is he a highborn Snow?" Jon asked.
Blink.
'Of course it bloody well was.' Jon mentally sighed.
"Are there more than fifty of you in the camp?" Jon continued, giving himself a small shake inside the confines of his brain.
Blink. Blink.
"More than forty?"
Blink.
"Are there any animals nearby I should be aware of?" Jon asked. The young demigod saw his prisoner's pulse get a bit faster before he answered again.
Blink. Blink.
"The truth of it now!" Jon growled, pressing the knife again. He heard the man whimper a bit as the blade bit a bit further into his skin. The scent of urine filled Jon's nose.
Blink.
"Horses?" Jon asked.
Blink. Blink.
"Dogs?" Jon guessed.
Blink.
He abruptly spun the man so that he landed facedown on the ground. Jon straddled his back before pulling his head up by the hair and holding the knife to him again before he could try to get up.
"Now tell me why the smallfolk are here. And if I even suspect you of trying to scream, I'll give you a new mouth to make it with." Jon threatened.
"They're here for sport an' for profit!" The man babbled. "Please don't kill me! I-"
"What do you mean, sport and profit?" Jon interrupted.
"Ramsay, he-he keeps them around cuz we can sell 'em to get some money. The others he keeps as game for his dogs to practice on!" He answered quickly. "I didn't want him to do the same to me like he did the last man tha questioned 'im about it! Please!" He begged.
Ramsay Snow? Jon felt as though he had heard that name before. But where?
It came to him in a flash. Roose Bolton's bastard. He was one of the worst kept secrets of the North, notorious for being the only son of Roose's after Lord Bolton's trueborn and only child Domeric had mysteriously died several years before Roose had declared Ramsay his heir.
Jon Snow could scarcely believe that this was the kind of person Lord Bolton wanted to take over the Dreadfort and the surrounding countryside. As Jon was about to ask another question, a shout rang behind him.
"Oi! What the bleedin' hell are you doing?!" The voice demanded.
While his human eyes were focused on looking down at the man beneath him who had relaxed marginally now that someone had come for him, his fire vision showed him the man's outline without his needing to turn around.
He stood out against the cool night air, his average build offset by the threat of the bow he held in his hands. An arrow was already nocked even if the bow itself was pointed at the ground at this moment in time.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl to Jon. He had gotten so caught up in interrogating the man beneath him that he hadn't registered the second man approaching until he had called to him just now. Much as Jon wished he could, he wasn't nearly skilled enough to create a fire to incinerate the man in an instant where he stood either with or without his hands. His mind raced, considering and discarding ideas at a rapid pace before it settled on his strategy. It was risky but the only one he could do with a hope for minimal damage to the trapped smallfolk.
Jon slowly moved his feet to the ground, still straddling the bandit beneath him.
"Don't you move ya little prick!" The archer behind him threatened, arrow being brought to bear. Jon knew he wasn't going to get much more time than that.
In the blink of an eye Jon moved. He swung his right leg off the man beneath him while forcefully pulling him by the hair with his left hand and sticking the dagger into his throat before using that to leverage his pulling his now bleeding body over his own.
As the archer instinctively fired at him, Jon managed to bring the gurgling bandit's body around in front of him even as it landed in between his spread knees that were now sharply bent. Jon heard the arrow impact the chest in front of him but wasted no time. With a silent prayer to his father and a quick attempt at judging distance and force, he withdrew the dagger from the dying man's neck and threw it at the archer.
It went end over end before lodging itself in the man's gut, causing him to release a cry of pain before he could even take his next arrow from the quiver. Jon pushed the cooling corpse in his arms off to the left of him as he used his legs to spring up and make a run for the man tugging his knife out of his stomach. He withdrew it with a short spray of blood and attempted to slash at Jon as he did so.
Jon spun in place as he approached, using his spin to go to the man's left where he had already swung the blade trying to prevent Jon from closing in. Even as he dropped the bow to try and bring his fist to meet Jon's face, the dark haired demigod's right hand shot out to meet it.
He took control of the man's wrist as his left hand gripped the man's throat. Without a second thought, Jon engulfed both his hands and the flesh they were holding in fire. The dark haired man tried to scream but only released a crackling gurgle as Jon's left hand cooked his vocal chords and managed to set his beard alight in the process. A part of Jon's mind was screaming at him to stop, horrified at what he was doing. But the rest of him realized that if he didn't kill this slaver, this willing hunter of other human beings, than he would alert the rest of the camp in moments.
Jon clenched the fingers of his left hand as the man's right dropped the blood stained knife to the ground as he opted to use it to try to prise Jon's iron grip off him. He felt the burning meat beneath his hand give way so easily. When he judged they were meeting each other halfway, Jon moved himself to the man's right and gave a mighty pull with his flaming left hand.
A small corner of Jon's mind observed that the gaping, bloody, burned wound looked like a small dragon had attempted to cook his neck before taking a large chunk out of it.
The archer's lifeblood managed to spray out within moments of Jon literally tearing his voice from his throat. Jon looked to the knife on the ground, picking it up and placing it in his belt, sure he would have to use it again momentarily. Thinking quickly, he knew that the two men's absence would not go unnoticed. Silence and stealth were closed to him as options now. Which left fire and mayhem. Hopefully they'd be too distracted trying to figure out who was attacking him to be able to gang up on him.
Jon picked up the discarded bow with his bloody but fireless left hand before he took the arrows from the quiver and stuck them in the ground. He knocked the first arrow to the bow, counting he had roughly ten left after he fired the one he had drawn. As his eye took aim, the adrenaline pounding in his ears caused him to see the fires in the distance and on the dead man's hand. The bow and arrow lit up just as he finished setting his sights on one of the Grimwells that was idling by a medium sized tent.
'Here goes nothing.' Jon thought to himself as he drew back the string. He waited only a few moments. And then…
He loosed the arrow.