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The cold winds of his homeland cut sharp through the small eye slit of Jon's helmet, remembering him he wasn't south of the Neck any longer. Being back in the North was an entirely different feeling than riding through the Westermountains or the narrow coast of the Sunset Sea. He and his cavalry unit were riding through the Borrowlands now.

It felt right, natural.

Same for Ghost, his Direwolf ran beside Jon's dornish stallion, nearly matching the horse in size. Ghost's fur was nearly identical as the light snow that already covered the meadows of the Land. It should feel good to be home, but they did not, the reason why they were back was too painful.

It had been two weeks since the Lannister fleet had arrived at Moat Cailin, they had been ordered to start driving the Wildlings out of the North immediately. Since then Jon had spent most of his time on horseback.

Ser Davon Lannister, Tyrion's bearded cousin, had reluctantly made him commander of the light cavalry, constantly sending him out to clear the paths for the advancing Lannister host, wanting Jon t0 battle all Wildlings on their way.

Davon did not like Jon very much anymore, or at least Jon thought so. Back at Casterly Rock, and on their campaign at the Iron Islands they had gotten along good, they had not been friends but they had been friendly. Jon had looked forward to fight with him north. Davon was a very skilled leader, but everything had changed when Tyrion's raven appeared.

Davon disliked that Tyrion had interfered in his command, ordering his cousin to appoint Jon to his second in command. Davon was cold and critical about Jon now, making him do this vanguard duty just to have him out of his way.

Maybe he would feel better if he knew how Jon felt himself.

He had never led men, not like this, not without a backup. At times, Jon felt like a little boy, especially when surrounded by older men in the war council, or with men he had fought side by side at the Iron Islands and who were now his inferiors; he had to lead them, send them to die if necessary. He rued this responsibility, the weight on his shoulders.

Jon tried to remember what his father had told him, he tried to utilize what he had learned from him.

Nevertheless, Jon would never let Davon know, the lion would only mock him, or worse humiliate him in front of the world to show his liege how foolish his idea to intervene in his command had been. Jon wasn't sure anymore if he could confine in his commander, it was horrible. Cleos had implied one night Davon would feel threatened by Jon, fearing Ned Stark's bastard would steal the glory from under his nose.

So Jon had to rely on himself, on his friends, who despise his appointment, didn't treat him much different, as if they wouldn't care what title he had now. Jon let it happen, not because he was ignorant of the dangers he evoked with his behaviour but because he craved the bit of normality they offered.

Cleos accompanied him on his rides in the snow, since a fortnight they, Jon and his men had trawled the land and one week's ride before Winterfell they were to catch a single Wildling yet. The only thing they had caught so far was support. The few Northerners left able to fight rather joined the Lannister men than waiting for the Greatjon to appear from the south.

They came with axes, clubs and whatever they could find, determined to hunt the Wildlings back behind the Wall. They all came to him, Jon, not Davon, to offer their weapon. Jon wished they wouldn't, but the men came to him, the bastard. Old Lords or castellans sent their men to him alike, the northern men wanted to fight with Jon, not being included in the Lannister host.

They follow the Starkblood in me.

Even if Davon thought the men, they added daily to their host, too unskilled to actually fight, Jon thought differently. They were eager to protect their home, and they should.

However, Jon knew he didn't meet their expectations. In absence of his father or Robb they came in the mind they would find Jon clad in Stark colours flagging the dire wolf of Winterfell. Instead, Jon knew they found a boy clad in Black and Lannister crimson, the crest of his southern knighthood on his shoulder, a white direwolf on a black field. He felt insufficient not to meet his peoples' expectations, nevertheless they stayed, bowing their head when Jon rode by.

How desperate must they be for their Lord when they bow before his bastard? Jon asked himself that more than once.

Davon appointed one of his companions as their 'administrator' letting them fight in the group of their villages and viviers with their own leaders. Jon doubted they would ever fight, Davon wouldn't give up the privilege of winning on his own.

Jon's party reached the top of a long slope, giving him a magnificent view over the countryside. The north laid in front of him, large meadows painted white by the snow, to his right the rolling lands where the White Knife ran. Cerwyn was not to spot yet but in less than two days they should reach it, if it was still there.

The plain was interrupted by small patches of forest and little villages alongside the Kings Road. Little columns of smoke crept to the clear sky, indicating life. Jon let his gaze wander taking in the land when he froze dead. Beside a small hill a much larger cloud of smoke made his heart pound hard in his chest. –Wildlings!

"Make yourself ready" Jon shouted, standing in his saddle. His men were in attention immediately. "Follow me!" He ordered and pressed ahead towards the smoke. The village couldn't be more than one and half a mile away. They hadn't seen the smoke before so they had the chance to catch the Wildlings in the act.

Finally, Jon had waited for long to meet them, he wanted to, the anger he felt when the news of Winterfell reached him boiled up in him again while his hand curled around the hilt of his sword. Eight-hundred hoofs thundered over the half-frozen ground, rods with flags were lifted and the growling and shouting of the men became louder the closer they came to their destination.

The moment Jon could see the huts up close he raised his arm, his men formed a wedge in ride, they would ride down any Wildling who would stand against them like a red wave. Jon drew his sword pointing it forward, the trumpeter let the clarion sound, Jon was ready, his men were ready.

Nothing happened.

No one came in their way. They entered in the village and reached the square, the little huts were built around. Jon stopped his stallion, the Dornish blood reared up with wild neighing.

"Spread out! Find them!" Jon shouted strong, hiding his confusion. Where were they?

He dismounted his horse, his boots sacking in the mud of the little square with a blob. There was nothing, how could that be? Frustrated he removed his helmet, tossing it aside in disbelief, the black smoke of the huts encircling him. The village was deserted by living soul, a few fresh corpses lied around in the stench of fire and death, peasants by the look of them, old men and women. A little boy, not older than six lied in a corner.

As old as Rickon Jon thought to himself, his chest tightened by the side, his face began to burn. He grabbed his helmet lying beside him and threw it against the nearest wall screaming in anger. Ghost howled whereas Jon started to paste around like an animal, breathing heavily.

"Here" Jon stopped in motion, his dented and muddy helmet in front of his eyes. Startled he followed the outstretched arm holding it finding Cleos observing him. His weasel eyes showed worry, something that didn't suit them very much.

Jon took the helmet with a short nod, averting his eyes he turned to his horse, binding the Helmet to the saddle.

"They are not here" Cleos told him from behind his back.

"I can see that." Jon answered gruntingly. "They killed them and left"

"One of the men found a survivor." Cleos told him with nothing cheerful in his voice. "A girl, perhaps fourteen, he pulled her out of half destroyed hut."

"Unharmed?" Jon turned around, not wanting to know the answer, or better already knew it.

"At the outside? – Yes" Cleos gulped. "But you can guess, I think."

"Yes." Jon knew what had happened, he felt sorry for the girl. He stilled for a moment, exhaling he beheld the ruins. "The people fled I figure?"

"Yes I think so, not enough corpses otherwise." Cleon began pacing in a circle. "But who knows how many they took with them though"

"How can they disappear so quickly?" Jon exhaled in anger. "How?!"

"We are not very inconspicuous Jon, they must have seen us and left. I doubt they will appear again before we leave." Cleos stated the obvious, gazing around as if he hoped to find them. It frustrated Jon, the Wildlings disappeared whenever he had thought he had them and there was nothing he could do, no matter how much he hunted them, he couldn't find them. Even Ghost, with his keen nose was at a lost, especially now with the smoke, irritating not only the human eyes and noses.

John blew out another angry buff of air. "We have to…"

"Ser!" John was interrupted by a motivated yell, turning around Jon found one of his men, short of breath he stumbled over his own words: " we, eh, we have found something … something interesting."

"Spat it out man!" Cleos turned his attention to the middle-aged man.

"We have found the storage. Unplundered. It looks like they desperately tried to batter in the door but failed. This oak doors Ser."

"Is anyone in there?" Jon asked with little hope, he supposed most of the villagers had fled before the Wildlings appeared and only a few lost stayed behind.

"Non Ser. But the Storage is full of food, Weed, oil even a bit silver."

"Thank you" Jon waved the man away looking around again ignoring the obvious wish of the man to 'save' the treasure he found. He took in the smell of the burning wood, only a few of the huts would stand after today, the villagers would return to nothing.

"We should go" Cleos exclaimed, waiting for Jon to answer.

"I am sick of it" Jon answered, lightly kicking a stone around. "I am sick of hunting them, being outsmarted by them."

"Suggestions?" Cleos asked sardonic, waving his arms around. Jon glared at him, angry about his own uselessness. He wanted to … he didn't know what. Cleos shrugged and moved, calling over his back: "I order the men to take the food, so at least the Wildlings won't get it when they returned."

And the epiphany came to Jon.

"No, let it be!" He exhaled excited, turning on the spot.

"Heh?" Cleos wrinkled his weasel nose.

"We trap them" Jon's mind was racing, finally seeing his chance. "Choose a third of the men, they are to take all horses and ride back to the army. But only till dawn."

"The host is more than a day behind us we…" Cleos started but Jon interrupted him.

"I know. They ride until dawn and turn around meeting with us here around noon again. The rest of us will hide in the ruins for the Wildlings to come back for the food. They will think we deserted the place to concentrate on the living villages. But we will wait and get them." Jon grinned pleased with his idea: "Quick before the smoke clears!"

-##-

Jon lied in ambush, wrapped in a dark cloak, his sword at his, side he shivered in the cold night hidden in the kindling ruin of an old hut. The moon stood already high in the sky and doubts came to Jon, had he misjudged the situation?

Turning around he leaned against a beam, then the feeling reappeared, his chest tightened again, his face burned and his head felt filled with heavy stones. He had to think of Bran, Rickon, his dead brothers. Against his will his head played through the horrors they must have suffered before it had ended, the fear they had. He felt the same for all of them, all he knew in Winterfell, Old Nan, Maester Luwin, Mikken, even for Lady Stark. He had tried to rationalise, they were dead, how could it matter? He failed.

How could they, this was not supposed to happen, it could not happen.

Winterfell was home to the Starks, how could any of them suffer there? By the Godswood, the old gods and all the generations of Starks watching over the place?

Winterfell could not have fallen to these savages, its walls could have withstand ten thousand men for weeks, month, years, but now a brute lolled in Lord Stark's high chair. Jon could not make sense of it.

Low cracks in the undergrowth ripped Jon out of his darkness. It hadn't been his senses who detected them but Ghost's. Jon could feel his connection to his direwolf; the wolf knew they were coming.

He elbowed the man next to him and shifted on his heels, grip tightening on his sword. In the pale moonlight he could finally see them with his own eyes, thirty or so figures lurking through the night, some of them casting huge shadows.

Jon had over a hundred men, he realised this wouldn't even be a fight. The figures moved to the storage, their whisper reaching Jon's ear. They did not spoke the old tongue.

"C'm' on open it" an indistinct dark figure ordered and another larger one raised the black silhouette of an axe and brought it on the door. With the boom of the impact John gave the signal.

With loud screams his men erected out of the ruins, storming at the little groups with their blades gleaming in the moonlight. Simultaneously the door of the storage broke open from the inside and Cleos, together with twenty men stormed out.

Jon thought they had won, but no. The Wildlings were quick, scattering around in the ruins while in the chaos and darkness his men stumbled over themselves like overeager children playing.

The large figure roared like a bear swinging his axe at the attacking men. Jon stopped, understanding that he lost the advantage.

"Careful!" He screamed, looking around in the darkness. "Fire!"

At his command two men on the storage roof enlightened pots of oil illuminating the scene, barring the chaos. Jon's men were hacking at the Wildlings, so many at one that they were outsmarted more than once, large groups hunted fleeing Wildlings in the ruins interfering with each other.

Nevertheless, one by one the Wildlings fell to the Lannister swords.

"I want Prisoners!" Jon yelled in vain, the men wouldn't hear him over the turmoil.

Suddenly something jumped him from the side, tackling him to the ground. Jon was smothered by fur and red. He used one hand trying to push the creature away from him and the other to ram the hilt of his sword in his side. His greater strength ruled and he threw the creature of him.

Scrambling to his knees, he brought his sword over his head and let his fall broad side down on his attackers head, thinking quick enough to knock him out instead of slicing him in half.

His heart felt like it wanted to jump out of his chest. Bracing on his sword Jon slowly rose from the ground, mud dripping from his clothed. He beheld the bundle of fur, supressing the urge to raise his sword again, killing the Wildling, killing him for what he did to Bran, Rickon and all the others.

He didn't, instead he raised his head and observed the scene: The battle was over, he saw the Wildlings lying dead on the ground, it looked like his was the only one who survived. There were wounded under his men, but their comrades took care of them.

Jon crouched down to his newly acquired prisoner and turned him. It was a girl!

Her red hair flowed from under her cloak, a small line of blood ran from her temple over her face. Jon could just stare.

-##-

"Is she awake?" Jon asked the guard in front of the door to the hut they locked her in. She was indeed the only one who had survived. They had slain twenty-three Wildlings only a few had escaped. Jon wasn't pleased. They could have caught them all if he had planned better, if his men hadn't attacked like a group of Wild hogs. Luckily none of his men was badly wounded. In a few hours the horses would return and they could retreat to the camp. But before that Jon wanted to interrogate the girl.

With Ghost at his side he entered the small one room hut. The ceiling had come down around a central pillar the girl was bound to. Jon stood in awe of her. The idea of a woman, together with these men, killing, was in theory understandable to him, but he had never seen.

Jon supposed she was around his age, short, skinny with a round face. Dried blood encircled a pug nose. Her hair was like fire, not like the Tully auburn of his siblings, no, fiery red.

He stepped closer to her, looking at her muscled body, through her apart lip he could see crooked teeth. He listened to her shallow breath.

"I know you are awake" He said sternly, looking her right in the face. "My wolf can smell it."

Slowly she opened her eyes, Jon behold the blue-grey in them, losing his composure for a moment.

"You do, pretty boy?" She grinned at him. "Can't blame a girl for trying" Jon struggled to find his way again, he could not blush, not now, he was here to interrogate her.

"Who are you?" Jon stood up just to quickly to appear calculated before he stepped back. "What does a girl like you does with such men?"

"A girl?" She enquired with underlying anger in her voice. "I am a spear-wife" She slowly pulled herself up on the post, liking her lips. "And you southern boy? Came to grab a piece?" In a sudden move she jumped forward, startling Jon so he stumbled back. Nonetheless the pillar held her tied, she grinned at him dangerously: "come on, try, pretty boy."

Jon again struggled for composure: "I am here to interrogate you? I am Ser…"

"I have no business with southern names." She spat: "You are in the north, my country and all I say to you: leave as long as you can"

"This is not your country!" Jon yelled back, losing himself. "I am Jon Snow, son of Eddard Stark the Lord of Winterfell. You are in my land."

"Then why are you fighting us, being so southern, if you are of the old men like us" She threw him of guard, making him angry.

"You attacked my land, you and your kind besieged and raided my home." Jon's breath went heavy all his mind set on one Question: "You will tell me who took Winterfell, how did you overwhelm it. NOW!"

The girl chuckled, sliding down the pillar: "You know nothing Jon Snow. We did not besieg the great castle, how could we, we were invited."