Jon ran like the wind.
At times he found himself amazed at this speed he now possessed. Amazed, but also baffled. White Walkers were many things, quick on the draw, incredibly strong, and dangerous to fight unprepared, but sprinters? Not once had he seen or heard of a Walker being able to move as fast as he could, not even the Night King!
The thought of White Walkers moving like he now could was a terrifying prospect, but also a confusing one. If what he possessed was the power of the Night King, who was the sire of the frozen fiends, then shouldn't they all be able to do this? And if so, why had they marched and not jogged their way to the Wall?
Seven hells, there were times he likened his speed to Ghost's! Without falter or rest, he leapt over streams and crossed through moors, over hills, and across fields with his blue eyes guiding him all the way into Bolton lands. At night, he simply ran, not stopping for anyone or anything. During the day, he skirted around settlements, farms, and villages as he glided through the Sheepshead Hills and reached Weeping Water after over a week of running across the North.
Jon did not know if the Bolton Bastard would even be there. All he knew of Ramsay had been learned from Sansa, which had only been enough to understand his enemy. What he did remember from Sansa's words was that Ramsay had been born in somewhere along the Weeping Water river and had hunted peasant girls with a pack of hounds. The fact that Roose Bolton allowed such things on his lands in the first place disgusted Jon to his very core, although he was not surprised. Jon had learned mankind's capacity for great evil and cruelty on a whim, and if Roose was anything like his son, Jon suspected he was as monstrous as his spawn. If Ramsay was not at Weeping Water, then he would head straight to the Dreadfort, and then…well…Jon was confident enough in his power that he could take on the Dreadfort singlehandedly.
One White Walker could decimate an entire castle on its own. He witnessed such feats before and could employ their rather straightforward tactics of scaling the walls in the dead of night and cutting down anyone standing in his way, or just walk straight through the front gates and slaughter everyone and everything that tried to stop him. The Bolton line ended with Roose and Ramsay, and when he took their heads, no more threat would come to House Stark from the Flayed Man!
In the back of his head, he knew this line of thinking was wrong, but he could not bring himself to care. There would be no honor in this, but there would be justice and vengeance, and after everything Jon had been through, those meant more to him than honor ever did!
Jon felt his lips curl in a snarl as he slogged over half-frozen stones of the Weeping Water. He did not 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, the Targaryens, and the Others!
He would kill as many as it took to secure his family's safety, end the threat beyond the Wall, and after that, he was done with Westeros!
Jon had been slinking within the woods surrounding the dreary mills and huts dotting the river for most of the day and received startled and wary looks from any smallfolk who caught glimpses of him amidst the trees before making himself scarce. Every heart flickered with fear, though he caused none. Seven hells, the whole land seemed tainted by fear! For three days, he stalked the terror-stricken land for the bastard of Bolton to no avail. He dared not ask the smallfolk, nor the men in Bolton livery that prowled the roads. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself and instead hunted through the thick woods; searching, waiting, and hoping for the moment when he would catch the monster.
Three days and three nights he spent squatting in the thicket, staring up at the Dreadfort from the woods, and hungering for the moment when he'd catch sight of Ramsay's ugly face. He fantasized on all the ways he would kill the monster, make him suffer and scream, before moving onto his father.
Torture had not been an easy option for him to stomach at first. When the war was beginning to grow sour, Jon still held onto a sense of honor, but as the days grew shorter, the nights colder, and enemies closer, his forces thinner, and his heart harder, Jon grew desperate. All information from captured prisoners were as vital as food and would be extracted by any means necessary. The executions of Red Priests, however…those were personal. Death by fire was purifying in their eyes, so Jon would strip them naked, tie them to posts, and leave them to freeze in the dark and cold. Then, only after their eyes reopened blue, would he end them. He ordered hands and feet boiled in cauldrons, wooden slivers driven under fingernails, legs and arms broken, and a hundred other horrid things he once naively thought he would never have to do because he was good and just and honorable, and a dozen other things that fighting in the cold and dark stripped away.
For Ramsay, though? Jon was willing to flay the bastard alive and toss his corpse over the Dreadfort to show his father that his son had truly become a flayed man! Or hack him to pieces! Or break his bones one by one until he was a mewling mess of agony! Or geld and let him bleed to death on the forest floor! Perhaps, Jon thought in his darkest moments when his impatience was strongest and he stared up at the Dreadfort from the trees at night, that he should just stop waiting and kill everyone in that wretched castle.
His waiting finally ended when the sound of barking dogs echoed through the trees on the fourth morning.
Jon did not think. His heart seemed to freeze for a moment, and then he just moved. The wind blew cold as he dashed through the trees with searching eyes bluer than the sky and murderous rage filling his heart.
"It could not be Ramsay," A part of his mind whispered, "It could be a hunting party or a pack of wild dogs!"
Somehow, Jon knew otherwise.
Jon skidded to a stop when suddenly a flickering little heart burst free from the tree line directly in front of him. It was a girl, no older than three and ten, and naked as the day she was born. Her face was white with terror and her eyes red with tears. Scratches and scrapes dotted her skin, and blood ran from a wound on her right calf. 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 when she all but slammed into him, grasping at his collar, and begging through tears of terror for help.
Then the hounds burst from the brush, nine great black mastiffs that charged when they saw them. The girl screamed and ducked behind him as the dogs bayed and attacked, but as they neared, Jon stepped forward and let loose the howling storm inside him so that Other magic blanketed the area in sheer cold.
Some of the hounds checked their charge, whimpering as frost coated the ground around them, but the ones with foaming jaws and white eyes rolling in their heads, the ones vicious enough to attack something that screamed death to their senses, those were the ones Jon killed first.
His hand dove into the folds of his cloak and pulled his Other blade from where it had been tied to his waist with a loop of cloth. The weapon was so cold that it steamed as it was swung through the air to carve through the first dog's skull like a rotten gourd. The second was pinned to the earth through its ribs with a whine of pain and panic. The third tried to bite Jon's leg, but he stomped down on its neck hard enough to end its life with a wet snap. The remaining dogs barked and panted clouds of steam into the freezing air, but they all 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, but she still got up and ran.
He 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 his stomach, and Jon let out a snarl when a horse galloped into the clearing and reared at the sight of him.
"Easy, Blood, easy!" Came the rider's voice, smooth as an oiled dagger and sickening as poison, as he calmed his blowing mount. Eyes like dirty chips of ice stared at him, and a slimy grin split a pale face as the monster adjusted the grip on his hunting bow and dismounted.
"Well, what do we have we here?" Ramsay Snow crooned.
Jon's entire world narrowed in on the Bolton bastard. Blood thundered in his ears, his nostrils flared, and his swordhand twitched violently.
This was the depraved monster that had raped and brutalized Sansa.
This was the cur that shot down Rickon.
This was the sadistic creature that tortured Theon to the brink of insanity.
None of that would ever happen, 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, his steaming sword, his cowering dogs, and stopped when he saw the corpses of his hounds, "You killed my dogs." He stated in a calm, almost friendly tone of voice that did absolutely nothing to hide the menace dancing in his eyes.
"Do you know who I am?" The bastard crowed after Jon said nothing, "I am Ramsay, of house Bolton!"
Ramsay then spotted his destroyed arrow lying on the ground and frowned in confusion.
"But you're not a Bolton." Jon said, cold as death, "You're a Snow."
Ramsay's face went blank.
Jon sneered.
"What's the matter, bastard?" He rasped, channeling every bit of Alliser Thorne's disdain into his tone. 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 the worst stereotypes bastardry entailed.
Said bastard was now quivering in rage. Good. He wanted to get the monster angry. He wanted him to attack so that Jon could knock him to the ground, wanted to see the look in his eyes when he realized that Jon could not be hurt, could not be killed, and could not be stopped.
The thought made Jon smile.
Ramsay's own smile was a twisted thing when he finally spoke, "I don't care who you are. Your name doesn't matter anymore, because when I'm done with you, it will be Reek! How's that sound, hmm? Reek! It rhymes with freak!"
"No, it doesn't matter." Jon agreed, "Because I'm going to kill you." With that said, he lifted his head to let the bastard see his glowing blue eyes burning beneath his hood.
To Ramsay's credit, he only blinked and tilted his head to the side in a curious motion, his mad eyes glittering with surprise, interest, and confusion before he yelled out to his hounds, "Rip him! Rip him!"
Spurred by their master, they charged, and Jon killed them with quick strokes that stained his cloak and sword with dog blood. After he was done, he turned back to Ramsay, who shot him in the face with another arrow. The arrowhead shattered into pieces and the shaft bounced off his cheek. A second was right behind it, aimed for his thigh, but that too broke harmlessly against his skin. Jon decided to side-step the third aimed for his groin and advanced on the Bolton bastard.
Ramsay's eyes bulged and he dropped his bow completely in favor of remounting his agitated horse, but before he got so much as a foot in the stirrup, Jon's arm whipped up and down, and Ramsay's horse keeled over with his icy blade imbedded in its neck. 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, but instead of running, Ramsay pulled a flensing knife from his belt and faced him.
Jon had to give the bastard his due; he was fearless, which made him stupid in that regard. Fear was what helped keep man alive in moments like this. The second stupid thing he did was allow Jon to get within striking range before slashing for his face. Jon caught the blade before it so much grazed his neck and squeezed.
It burst into a hundred pieces, and Ramsay watched the frozen shards fall to the forest floor with a poleaxed expression.
"How sharp are your blades now, bastard?" Jon intoned lowly before backhanding Ramsay so hard that his feet left the ground.
The second he hit the dirt, Jon fell on him with a cry and began raining down blow after blow, striking at every inch of exposed flesh. Ramsay slapped and clawed at Jon's neck and eyes, but he felt nothing and continued to punch, and punch, and punch with no Sansa witnessing the savagery to make him stop this time!
It was not enough! Not nearly enough! He needed more! Needed to HURT Ramsay more! What this creature had and would do to his family and to the North kept running around and around in his head as he hit him over, and over, and over.
He raped my sister! He killed my brother!
Even as Ramsay's struggles weakened, Jon battered him over and over 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!
Ramsay's blood stained Jon's cloak now. The bastard of Bolton's face was bloody too, so bloody that it looked like an open wound. His nose was mashed flat, both his eyes were swollen shut, many of his teeth had broken and fallen into his throat, and his skin had been split by Jon's knuckles, but it still was not enough! He didn't think he'd be able to stop until his fist broke through bone and brain and kissed the forest floor.
"STOP!"
Jon's bloody fist stilled at the sound of the voice. Slowly, he looked over his shoulder at two armed men in Bolton livery standing a ways behind him. Behind them were a gathering of smallfolk from Weeping Water, and among them he spied the girl he had saved, her body now covered by a woolen blanket. When Jon turned to look at them, their eyes went wide, and gasps of fear echoed through the trees.
"By the gods!" One guard exclaimed while the other yelled, "Stand up! Stand up slowly!"
Jon's cloak, face, hair, and fists were all stained red with blood and his hood had fallen back to reveal his glowing blue eyes when he stood and glanced at the frightened and anxious crowd. Even the girl he had saved looked frightened and cowered with wide eyes. One wrong move and they would either attack or flee. Judging from the axes and shovels held with deadly intent, Jon betted on the latter.
So, he ran.
People shouted in alarm and the guards called for him to stop, but Jon was already sweeping over Ramsay's dead horse to rip his sword 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 came to a stop on the rocky banks of Weeping Water some ways away from the settlement.
He had done it!
He had killed Ramsay!
He should feel joy, elation, satisfaction even!
Instead, he felt very little.
His knees dug into the pebbles and rocks as he stared down at his reflection in the water. His chest, fists, face, and hair were soaked in blood, and his eyes had returned to flinty black. Jon dipped a hand into the slow-moving river and watched the current wash away the red mess coating his skin before he got up and waded into the water, immune to the cold, and began scrubbing the blood from his arms and face until a steady trail of pinkish red began flowing downstream from where he stood.
He watched it disappear and caught another glimpse of his reflection in the water.
His hair had begun to turn white. No longer entirely black, it hung freely around his shoulders in a curly mane of black and white streaks like a shadowcat's pelt. He didn't know when the changes had begun, but he knew without a doubt that it coincided with his powers. What would change next, he wondered? Would his eyes become permanently blue? Would his skin turn white and stretch taut over his bones? Perhaps icy horns would sprout from his head?
His reflection burst apart when Jon slapped the water, suddenly unable to stomach the sight of himself.
"Enough!" He thought with a snarl.
So what if he had killed Ramsay? He was just the first name off Jon's list, one of many, and it would take a great deal of work to cross them all off.
Jon turned in place to stare back from whence he had come and felt his eyes narrow.
A great deal of work indeed.
One flayed man still remained.
The Dreadfort was a strong fortress with high and thick stone walls, massive towers, and triangular merlons that looked like sharp stone teeth. Men at arms prowled the ramparts, and pink banners flapped in the breeze. It was a foreboding and bleak castle for a bleak and foreboding land.
"Halt! Who approaches the Dreadfort?" A guard called from the wall.
Jon said nothing as he continued walking forward. The gate was shut, the castle closed, but not for long.
"Halt! I said halt, you-"
Jon burst into action. Pulling his sword from the folds of his cloak, he dashed forward and swung with all his might. The precision, skill, strength, and speed of a White Walker allowed him to guide his razor thin ice sword in a perfect arc through the middle of the gates to split the bar holding them shut from the other side with a loud crack.
Men began shouting, but Jon paid the words no heed and kicked the gates wide open.
A short tunnel stood between him and the courtyard with a pair of spearmen guarding the entrance. He rushed them, grabbing the shaft of the one spear when it stabbed for his guts and let the other shatter against his thigh. Jon ripped the weapon from its wielder's hands to twirl and thrust into the man's eye. As he fell dead, Jon closed the distance with the second man to slash open his throat.
The Dreadfort's courtyard vaguely resembled Winterfell's in design, save that it was smaller and with numerous tanning racks lined with animal skins, and everyone within stopped what they were doing and stared in dumbfounded shock and horror as he prowled forward, white mist steaming around his feet, and sword dripping red.
Two more spearmen came for him, and when he spilled their guts onto the mud, the surprise of his arrival vanished and the screaming and running began.
Jon felt the frigid magic protecting his flesh flare when a spear was jabbed into the back of his left knee, and he turned glare into the wide eyes of his newest opponent. The man was paralyzed with fear and did not even try to dodge when Jon walked up and hacked his head off.
A volley of arrows suddenly slammed into his back, and Jon whirled to bare teeth up at the archers on the ramparts. Before he could do anything else, a man came screaming in from his right with sword swinging wildly. Jon's own shattered it to pieces and buried into his guts, and when he ripped it free, a horn sounded from on the walls, warning the rest of the castle to his presence. Armed men began running at him from every side with spears and swords flashing, and without a second thought, he threw himself into the fray.
One slash loped a man's arm off at the shoulder before he spun and thrust through another's breastplate like it was made of silk rather than steel.
A sword swung in from Jon's left. He caught the wrist holding it with one hand, yanked the wielder close, and ran his blade through the man's open mouth.
A man with a shield was next. Jon just hammered his sword against the wood until the iron buckles broke, the wood splintered, and the man holding it fell dead.
The air was filled with men's battle cries, the sound of shattering metal, screams of agony, and the white mist billowing greater and greater with each man felled until it swallowed the combatants. The men were confused, scared, and panicked, unable to see or even defend themselves from the unstoppable devil with blue eyes. For Jon, it was a familiar whirlwind of bodies, screams, and hot blood. He twisted and swung, parried, stabbed, hacked, and slashed while utilizing a mix of his own skill and the edge of a White Walker. His Other eyes saw the heat of their bodies through the thick mist, and he spilled their lifeblood onto the earth without hesitation. It got to the point where he did not even bother blocking or parrying; just let steel break against him before ending their lives.
The archers looked on from the walls in horror as screams of fear and pain sounded from the cloud of swirling mist below.
"N-nock!" Their captain cried out. Bowstrings creaked and aimed shaking arrowheads down into the mist.
"Loose!"
Arrows screamed into the cloud, and the screaming was silenced.
A strong wind suddenly swept over the Dreadfort to blow away the mist and reveal the carnage below. So much blood had been spilled that it turned the courtyard red. Bodies lay everywhere; dozens of them with missing arms, legs, heads, or guts that lay separate from their owners. Some had been cut clean in half at the waist. Some had even been struck down by their own archers. The ground was also coated in a gritty layer of frost and metal shards from all the shattered weaponry.
However, the one responsible was nowhere in sight.
The killer in question had slipped through an open door amidst the chaos. The blood coating him from head to toe froze and cracked off as he walked, and white mist still swirled around his boots and trailed behind him like smoke. The Dreadfort was dimly lit on the inside, but it soon became dark and cold as a winter night when his very presence blew out the torches.
Jon had no sense of direction. He had never once been to the Dreadfort and had no idea where the Leech Lord resided, but he was so consumed by his own rage and bloodlust that he figured carving the castle up from the inside would eventually flush Roose out. Any servants or smallfolk he encountered on his rampage fled or cowered at his presence, but Jon swept past them without a second glance.
Only those that tried to stop him were killed, and there was plenty of resistance to be found in the swarms of men armed with spears and shields that flooded the halls and blocked the stairs. Jon threw himself into the teeth of the defenders and shattered them with each swing of his sword, splitting shields and spears under his assault, and did not stop swinging until the hallway was littered with cooling corpses and frozen metal shards.
"Where is your lord?" Jon hissed down at the survivor of the most recent gauntlet he had demolished. The man stared up at him from the floor with wide eyes and trembling shoulders but did not say a word. Jon's hand shot out and lifted him up by his throat, "Where is he!" Jon shouted. His victim whimpered and squirmed in his freezing grasp, and judging from the smell, had shit himself.
"Speak!" Jon barked.
"I don't know!" The man blubbered, "I don't know! I swear I don't know! Please, don't-"
Jon cut him short by running him through with a sneer of distaste. Sniveling cowards, all of them! Those who wore the colors of Bolton were little more than mad dogs that needed to be put down, and mad dogs deserved no mercy!
When he turned the next corner, the hallway was filling with more guards that froze when they saw him but leveled their weapons all the same. Jon let out a snarl and flicked his sword to send the chunks of frozen gore along its length breaking against the old stone of the Dreadfort before walking forwards.
"I'll ask you all once!" Jon called as he approached, "Where is your liege?"
Behind him, a door slammed open from the other end of the hallway, and over a dozen men armed with swords and knives strode in. Jon wanted to tell them to turn back, that their mortal weapons of steel and iron would be useless, that their numbers would not save them, but that was when a familiar face caught his eye. At first, he blinked and did a doubletake, but the longer he stared at the long face lined with creases, the shaggy black beard, wavy hair, and scar under the right eye, the more his surety, incredulity, and mounting fury rose.
"Locke?" Jon spat.
The man blinked once and responded after a moment, wary and confused.
"…Aye?"
All of Jon's focus settled on Locke, who looked utterly baffled, and he hissed, "I thought you said you were from the Stormlands?"
"What the fuck?" Jon heard the man whisper to himself.
Locke was a Bolton man. Had been a Bolton man. Jon doubted he had joined the Watch of his own accord, so why? Had he been sent? The reasons for Roose sending anyone to the Wall at the time were few, and Jon doubted Roose had ever seen him as a threat. He wasn't a Stark, but a Snow, and the only Starks for miles around had been Rickon and…Bran.
Bran, who had gone Beyond the Wall.
Bran, who Jon had thought headed to Craster's Keep.
Bran, who had been searched for by Jon's foraging party, which had included Locke.
The men's breath came out in clouds of steam as the temperature dropped lower and lower. Frost crept along the stone, what torches remained went out at once, and white mist churned and boiled until it obscured Jon entirely, save his eyes, which burned with ice and hate.
They were the last thing Locke saw before Jon attacked.
A trail of blood-soaked and frozen footprints followed Jon through the halls. His sword was coated in a fine layer of red slush, as was he. Jon reckoned he resembled the aftermath of the Battle of the Bastards with his face stained with blood and mud and armor soaked in red. Although he wore no armor this time. His doublet, trousers, and boots were ripped, torn, slashed, and shredded with his cloak no different.
A door stood ajar before him, and he opened it with little care for what lay on the other side to find himself in the great hall of the Dreadfort. The place was dim and smoky with a vaulted ceiling and wooden rafters turned black from smoke. Rows of torches were grasped by skeletal human hands jutting from the walls. Long tables stood before a dais with a high table, except all the tables had been flipped on their sides to form hasty barricades for archers that let loose the moment he stepped inside.
The volley stumbled him into the wall, unharmed of course, and Jon looked about with eyes blazing at what seemed to be the rest of the Bolton's garrison; over a hundred men armed to the teeth with swords, shields, spears, axes, and knives all crammed together. Jon straightened and let out a guttural snarl. Even with his invulnerability, it would take a while to kill them all.
There was a sudden shift in the men towards the dais, and Jon's eyes snapped towards a pasty man wielding a sword and dagger who stepped forward. He was clad in a suit of dark grey plate armor over a quilted tunic of blood-red leather with rondels shaped like human heads with mouths open in agony and a helmet with streamers of red silk. Eyes paler than Ramsay's, like two white moons, bore into him with frightening intensity.
It did not take much for Jon to guess who this was, and a fresh wave of hate bolstered him as he stared down the man who had betrayed and murdered Robb in another life.
The archers quickly nocked arrows and grips on weapons tightened all around. No sound was heard other than the creaking of armor, the shifting of boots on stone, and the heavy breathing of unnerved men ready to fight. The air was so thick with tension that you could cut it with a knife.
Roose's face was blank while Jon's a mask of cold fury; glowing blue eyes glaring into ghost grey.
Then the Leech Lord's lips parted to speak, but Jon started forward before he could even utter a word.
Jon had long given up on words. He was never good with them, anyway. Action was the only thing that gave him results. Action, violence, and bloodshed were the only thing people seemed to understand so he would exchange no words, give no quarter, and show no mercy! Not anymore!
Immediately the archers drew and fired with the same result as before, but this time, Jon braced for the impact and barely budged. His strides ate up the distance between him and the men ready to defend their lord, all the while never looking away from Roose Bolton. They screamed and charged with cries of "Protect Lord Bolton!" and Jon met them with sword held high. Spears jabbed into his belly, chest, and face but shattered like glass when Other magic flash-froze them. Then Jon slammed into the shield wall at full speed and smashed through like it was made of straw. Men went flying, shields and limbs buckled and broke, and Jon powered through the wall of bodies by punching, shouldering, kicking, and slashing with inhuman strength and speed. They tried to stop him, they really did, but he had become a whirlwind of frozen death and pain that broke bones, shattered steel, and ended lives in the blink of an eye until he finally broke through the defenders and threw himself at the dais.
Roose's pale eyes widened, and he leapt back to avoid the ice blade that screamed through the air and nearly grazed his nose. Jon swung again with a cry, but Roose had seen what Jon's weapon did to steel and retreated, not even bothering to fight, and let the men stationed along the dais behind the overturned tables attack Jon with reckless abandon. One leapt on his back and tried choking him with his short bow, but Jon flicked his blade up to let its edge bite through the man's skull and leak his brains all over the floor. He rolled the corpse off him and tried to chase Roose, but multiple hands grabbing at his cloak and limbs forced him to turn and ward them off with fist and sword while Roose Bolton slipped away with a retinue of men. When Jon saw that his quarry was escaping, he let out an enraged cry and tried to free himself from the mass of bodies and run for the door, but more hands grabbed and pulled him back. Another body leapt atop his shoulders, and then another, and another, and another, and he roared in rage as his knees began to buckle.
The door Roose escaped through swung shut with a bang, and a howling pit of black, freezing hatred opened inside him.
Robb's smile was bright, but his eyes were sad.
"Next time I see you, you'll be all in black."
"It was always my color." He responded.
"Farewell, Snow"
"And you, Stark."
And then their final embrace, Robb's expression unreadable as he pulled back to stare at him for what neither would have guessed to be the last time they ever saw, or spoke, or breathed the same air together-
An aura of cold exploded outwards to snuff the waning torchlight and plunge the hall into darkness. In the same moment, Jon turned his head, dug his teeth into someone's throat and tore, hot blood filling and cooling in his mouth. The gurgling scream lasted only an instant, but it was drowned out by the scream of mad fury that exploded from his lungs. He grabbed at the limbs holding him and squeezed until armor dented and bones cracked to rip himself free. The world became a haze of punching, kicking, biting, and slashing all while doing what he did best; kill.
And kill he did. One by one, his enemies fell until not enough hands could hold him or weigh him down with bodies, and Jon took off like a loosed arrow the moment he got free.
A moment later, his shoulder struck wood and he burst through the door Roose had exited with a loud bang.
For a moment, he stumbled, but quickly righted himself and tore down the hallway with eyes burning blue and his breath coming out in puffs of frigid air. Up ahead, the hall turned right, and Jon did not bother slowing down as he rounded the turn and slammed into the wall, stumbling to his knees. When he looked up, his Other eyes saw the heat-shapes of over a dozen men who had slowed down to look at him before they resumed running. Jon's teeth bared in a wolfish snarl and he powered forward and poured on the speed.
"BOLTON!" The words ripped from his throat in a ragged cry. The men with Roose turned as he caught up to them and did their best to protect their lord.
They failed.
Jon's slash took the first man's leg off at the hip before he even raised his sword in a fountain of blood and screams, and the follow-up lunge pinned the next one to the wall through his mail. Their cries of agony filled the hallway as Jon was moving again, ripping his sword free and cutting through the next opponent's sword and face in one swing before kicking his body into the next man. Two big ones tried to pin him with their size and strength, but Jon snapped one's knee with a sharp kick before chopping off the second's hand and head in two swings. The next man he punched so hard that he felt the skull break beneath his knuckles.
And so it went, until there were no more warm bodies between him and Roose Bolton.
Roose had slammed the door at the end of the hall shut behind him, but it did not stop Jon. With a grunt, he smashed through it like an angry bull and collided with the Leech Lord on the other side. The moment Jon touched Roose, he flew into a rage; scrabbling and scraping to grab him, and the two tussled on the floor like a pair of wild animals rather than men.
The last of House Bolton fought back, his knife flashing out to bury itself between Jon's glowing blue eyes. When it crumbled into nothing, Roose resorted to kicking and punching that did the same as his knife. Finally, Jon's grabbing hands seized the ribbons of Roose's helmet, and he yanked with all his might so that the straps dug into Roose's chin and pulled him onto his back. Jon then surged to his feet and dragged the thrashing lord of the Dreadfort by his helmet until the ribbons snapped and Jon nearly fell.
Roose, moving surprisingly quick for a man in full plate, rose and tried to run, but icy hands grabbed him once more to spin him around and punch him hard in the gut. The sound of metal denting rang through the hall as Roose slammed back against the wall with the wind knocked out of him. Jon came at him again, his sword forgotten, and began hammering away at the armor to get at his ribs, wanting to feel the man break under his hands!
When Roose tried gouging out his eyes with his nails, Jon bit his fingers like a wolf while pressing an open palm into Roose's face and smushing his cheek against the cold stone. Jon's teeth broke past skin, muscle, and snapped through bone. Hot blood filled his mouth again and he spat out the second knuckles of Roose's middle and pointer fingers.
For the first time throughout their fight, Roose made a sound; a hiss of surprised agony that flared Jon's bloodlust higher.
Jon reared back and punched him square in the face.
Not hard enough to crack bone, but hard enough to stun him. His legs gave out and he dropped like a sack of potatoes, armor scraping against the wall and hitting the floor with a hard thud that jostled his limbs and bobbled his head.
Pale eyes rolled in their sockets, and Roose coughed to spit out a tooth.
Jon loomed over him with his sword back in his hand, and those eyes refocused on him with what might have been a hint of what he prayed was fear.
"What are you?" He heard the Bolton lord ask in a soft and quiet voice.
For a moment, Jon said nothing.
Then, a leer split his lips, and he crouched down to stare directly into Roose's pale and bruising face.
"The Stark send their regards!"
Roose's pale eyes widened in shock. His mouth opened to speak, but Jon's sword flicked a red line across his throat, and the last of House Bolton bled out on the stone, choking to death on his own blood.
"No more words." Jon whispered as he stood over his slain enemy with eyes wide and burning with triumph.
Ah, there was the satisfaction he had craved.
Noise drew his attention to where the remaining garrison had finally caught up to him. When they saw him kneeling over the body of their lord, they all froze and stared in fear and horror.
Slowly, Jon rose and faced them.
A single step forward and they scattered like rats. Slowly, so, so slowly, he walked after them, having found that his thirst for vengeance lay unquenched. Any who served the Boltons deserved death in his eyes.
Kill them all.
Yes…yes, that sounded good.