They had lingered at Winterfell for only several days before continuing the journey north. Jon had been anxious at the reaction to releasing the wildling prisoners, but had only met slight resistance. Ser Rodrik had briefly blustered at seeing Tormund and Ygritte free, both now washed and dressed in clean, northern garb. Jon found it remarkable, how with just a simple set of clothing, the two could easily pass for members of a northern household. While Jon had noted that the presence of the wildlings was necessary, he had intentionally withheld his intent to travel with them beyond the Wall, and into the hands of the enemy…that would wait until the right time.

Before leaving, he had been sure to see to it that affairs in Winterfell were settled. While he had grown up in the castle, he had never been groomed to run it the way that Robb had, and was somewhat out of his element when it came to such matters. Jon had sat for numerous meetings with Maester Luwin, Lady Catelyn and Queen Margaery to discuss their winter stores and impending flood of people who would be seeking shelter from the weather in Winter Town. Jon was truly in awe of their new Queen, for though she was a novice in the ways of northern life, she made her strong opinions known without reservation. The castle inhabitants had all taken to her quickly as well.

The night before they were to set out, the Stark family joined together for a private meal in the Great Hall. It was no feast, but for Jon, being in the presence of so much of his family for the first time in many months, it was revitalizing… it was enough. The weight of Ned Stark's permanent absence from the castle was felt, as was Robb's, but the new additions provided a cause for lightness. Shireen Baratheon had initially been quite reserved, but had quickly learned that her new guardians were kind and unaffected by the scars on her face. Margaery had taken special interest to see to the girl's care, and to Jon's surprise, she and Arya got on well. Having spent years sequestered under the strict rule of Stannis, Arya's disdain for social norms was likely a refreshing change of pace.

The memory of the peaceful evening kept in Jon's mind as his horse carried him north along the Kingsroad, and into the heart of the Wolfswood. The road narrowed, and as he looked back, he saw their men compressed into a long line that stretched at least a mile back. Helman Tallhart and Robin Flint were riding behind him, while the wildlings, Tormund and Ygritte, rode a pace ahead, where Jon could keep his eyes on them. If Jon had not known where the two wildlings came from, he would have thought them oddest pair of traveling companions. Tormund refused the be quiet, speaking of his many unbelievable exploits beyond the Wall, while Ygritte would constantly look back at Jon, giving him flirtatious and lecherous looks, forcing him to adjust himself in the saddle.

They marched at a steady pace through the morning and late into the afternoon, with the only delay a broken wheel on one of the baggage carts. Eventually, the forest to the east began to thin, and Jon could see edge of the icy Long Lake peaking through. He had intended to make camp at the northern edge of the Lake, but then Tormund's voice alerted him.

"Smoke ahead," the wilding noted, pointing to a swirl of black wisps emerging above the trees.

"There are fishing villages along the lake," Jon advised, though the sight gave him pause. His disquiet was proven justified as the plumes became thicker, and the acrid smell began to fill his nose.

"Those aren't mere cook fires," Helman Tallhart stated.

"Likely more wildling savages causing trouble," Robin Flint growled.

"Doubt it," Tormund countered. "Not like us to burn villages and draw attention to ourselves."

"I don't know what it is, but it's likely not anything good," Jon interjected. He turned his horse around to face his men. "Whomever it is, they won't be expecting us, so we should set upon them quickly. Ser Helman and I will lead a force of horse against them, while Lord Flint follows and organizes the remainder of the men. The forest opens in a short distance, so form the men into lines."

"And what of us, Stark?" Ygritte questioned, drawing Jon's attention from behind.

Looking into the forest, he whistled and then called out, "Ghost!". After only a few moments, a rustling was heard in the depths of the forest, followed by the appearance of the white wolf. Jon looked back at Ygritte. "You two stay with the rest of the army. Ghost, if they try to run…hunt." The dire wolf turned his piercing gaze towards the two wildlings.

Tormund gave him a wry grin, barely discernible through the thick beard. "And here I thought we were friends."

Not wasting anymore time on banter, Jon drew his sword. He and fifty riders rode hard, their horses' hooves beating against the frigid earth, the sound echoing through the forest. The smoke grew thicker and thicker, until finally Jon could see orange flames flickering ahead. When the forest finally opened into a clearing, the sight that met them was nothing but destruction and carnage.

The village itself was small, but still made up of over twenty stone-walled dwellings. However, while the walls were stone, the rooftops were made of straw and sticks, and most were now burning. There was no movement, and the clearing was silent, but for the crackling of the flames. With no immediate threat in sight, Jon brought his horse to a halt. He slid from his mount, and slowly made his way into the heart of the village. It did not take long to find the first corpse…then the second…and a third…

The villagers had been utterly slaughtered…hacked, sliced, pierced with arrows, and apparently mauled by hounds by the looks of some of the gruesome wounds. Men, women and children lay dead. Jon's grip on his sword was fierce as both rage and despair overtook him. The lifeless eyes of a boy younger than Rickon was sure to haunt his sleep. He knelt and closed the poor boy's eyes.

"Jon." He looked over to where Helman Tallhart stood, staring intently at something. Jon arose from his knees and walked slowly over. Immediately he had to fight the bile that threatened to rise from his gut. Attached to a tree, two boards had been nailed into the shape of an x. Affixed to the boards with nails, was the stretched body of a woman. Her dead eyes were wide, as was her mouth, in an everlasting scream of unimaginable agony. Every single bit of skin below her neck had been peeled away…flayed. The bloody sight of exposed muscle was sickening, and Jon was fighting every reflex to retch.

"This wasn't wildlings," Jon snarled. "This was fucking Boltons."

"This is madness," Tallhart stated, shaking his head. "Roose Bolton is a frigid cunt, but I can't believe he'd be so foolish or reckless to do something like this."

Just as he was about to respond, Jon spotted movement behind a tree in the distance. He was about to raise his sword and alert the others, but then the figure became clearer, and he could see that it was a child, crouched and huddled into a ball. Sheathing his weapon, he approached slowly, trying not alarm them. Even when he was just steps away, the child remained, seemingly in shock, tracks of tears streaming down their face. It was a girl, likely not yet in her teens. Her dirty, brunette hair was singed in many places, as was her ruddy, thread-bare dress. Her arms were exposed to the elements, and Jon could see her shivering violently. Reaching for the clasp of his cloak, he pulled it from his shoulders and wrapped it around the girl.

"Can you tell me your name?" Jon asked, his voice gentle as he crouched down to the young girl's level.

At first she did not respond, but then her bloodshot eyes raised to his. "Amira," she stated, her voice wavering.

"Amira," Jon repeated. "My name is Jon Stark. Do you know the Starks?"

The girl nodded. "They are our Lord. I've been to Winterfell…with my family." At the mention of her family, her voice broke into a sob.

"Well, my brother Robb is Lord Stark now, and he is also King in the North. He's sent me here to help you."

"Does that mean you're a prince?" The girl asked, a peak of wonder behind her devastated eyes.

"I suppose it does," Jon replied, offering a comforting smile. "Can you tell me what happened here?"

"They…they said they wanted our winter stores…and our horses," the girl whispered. "We…we gave them what we could, but…but then they attacked…they killed my family…and I ran."

"I'm so sorry, Amira," Jon consoled. "Do you know who it was that attacked you? Were they carrying banners or wearing a sigil on their clothing?"

"The flayed man, m'lord," the girl answered. "It was the Boltons. They've come before, taking what they please, even the women…call it a tax for their protection."

"And do you know who was leading them?" Jon questioned.

"He called himself Ramsay Bolton, m'lord."

Taking a steadying breath, Jon reached under the child's arms and easily pulled her to her feet. He pulled his fine fur cloak tighter around the girl. "You've been very brave, Amira. I'm going to make sure that justice is done for what's happened to your family."

She nodded, fighting back another sob. "Thank you, m'lord. Will you take me with you? I don't have anywhere to go."

"You won't be able to travel with us," Jon said. "It's going to be much too dangerous where we're headed. But you'll be going somewhere much safer. Some of my men are going to escort you back to Winterfell, where you'll be looked after. Do you know how to ride?"

"Yes, m'lord. My father taught me."

"Good. We'll get you your own horse, and you'll be on your way to get fed and warmed, away from all of this. When I get back to Winterfell, I'll be sure to come check on you."

Once Amira was safely on her way, Jon once again found himself walking through the destroyed village, his anger building as his men saw to the fires and bodies. He watched as Robin Flint and Helman Tallhart approach, waiting for him to speak his mind.

"This cannot stand," Jon stated. "We've all heard the rumors about Ramsay, but this goes beyond cruel mischief. This is murder, and it must be answered for. I'll have his head for this."

"Should we not seek the King's guidance on this matter," Lord Flint asked, his tone cautious.

"Robb is not here, but he sent me north with the full weight of his authority. I will not wait to act while our people are being slaughtered like livestock. We do not know what else has been going on here while we have been south. This may just be but one example of many."

"Confronting Roose Bolton on this may lead to war…another war," Helman Tallhart spoke. "Roose has no other heir, so asking for the boy's head will not be met well."

"We all must bear the consequences of our actions," Jon responded. "My father would've never let this stand, no matter whose son it was. If Roose wants a war, then so be it."

"Not to put a damper on that sentiment, but the Boltons would likely field a larger force than we have at the moment," Robin Flint cautioned. "And the Dreadfort itself is no simple conquest. They could simply hole up inside and wait us out. A siege in the middle of winter is not sustainable this far north."

Jon knew that he was right. The Dreadfort was formidable, and the numbers were not with them. Robb had tasked him with providing support for the Night's Watch, but this could not simply be ignored.

"Lord Flint, get three of your best archers and get them ready to travel with all haste. Have them remove anything from their person that could identify their allegiance in the event they are caught."

"Where will they be going?"

"To the Dreadfort," Jon responded. "I don't trust that this is simply Ramsay causing trouble. I want to know what Roose Bolton is scheming. The girl said something curious."

"What was it?" Flint questioned.

"It may be nothing, but she said that Ramsey called himself Ramsey Bolton. He's a well known bastard, and the only way he could have been legitimized would be by order of a king…I would know. There's no chance it was done on Robb's command. Which would mean Roose is corresponding with another king."

"It could just be the boy spouting nonsense," Helman Tallhart noted. "If he's capable of this type of outrage, lying would mean little to him."

"Could be, but I can't just let it go. Tell the archers that they are to shoot down every raven traveling to, or coming out of the Dreadfort. The rest of the men will camp here for the time being. Form a defensive perimeter and dig in, just in case they come back this way."

"What of the issue of numbers?" Tallhart asked. "It would take weeks to get additional men from the Riverlands. We may be able to scrounge a few from Last Hearth or Cerwyn, but not enough to make a difference."

"No, we'll leave them be," Jon stated, beginning the walk back towards his horse. "If Bolton has any thoughts to move against other northern houses, I'd not pull any away from their remaining defenses. My plan is to ride west into the Wolfswood to seek out the mountain clans. Between the Liddles, Wulls, and Norreys…I can probably add another thousand fighters, if not more. I had thought to seek out their services to aid at the Wall, regardless."

"Those clansmen are just as likely to fight amongst themselves then they are the Boltons," Tallhart remarked, clearly dissatisfied at the thought of fighting alongside the rugged mountain dwellers.

"They'll answer the call of their King," Jon replied. "They might not be the most polished of peoples, but they know how to fight." He pulled himself up on his mount, preparing himself for a long ride into the night. He gave a final look to his commanders. "The men are yours. It would be a good idea to have them start crafting ladders. If we need to lay siege to the Dreadfort, we should be prepared."

"You don't mean to go alone, do you?" Lord Flint asked. "The woods are treacherous, especially at night. The King would have our heads for allowing you to set out on your own."

"I grew up riding and hunting these woods," Jon countered. "I'll move faster on my own…and I won't truly be alone. Any man or beast who would mean to accost me will think twice at Ghost's presence."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Robb Stark had laid in his bed in Casterly Rock for hours, but any of hope of a restful slumber eluded him. The stress of kingship was starting to wear on him, and he dearly missed the comforting embrace of his queen. He had expected to be gone from the pretentious home of the Lannisters weeks ago, but the houses still loyal to the Lannisters were proving a thorn in his side.

There were two mountain passes in the Westerlands, one through the Golden Tooth entering into the Riverlands and the other along the Gold Road leading to the Crownlands and King's Landing. Despite being besieged on two sides, House Lefford refused to surrender the Tooth, and Houses Brax and Lydden had created a makeshift blockage along the Gold Road preventing safe passage. Robb's patience was wearing thinner and thinner as each additional day went by. He longed to be back in Winterfell again. He did not want to miss the birth of his firstborn.

Claps of thunder and flashes of lightening outside his windows were the final straw in his efforts for rest. Rising from his bed, wearing only a pair of breeches, he walked to his solar, where maps and troop positions were laid out. He stared down at them, his thoughts racing with plausible ideas on how to quickly break the sieges. Though he had heard nothing more from the Lannisters since taking their castle, which was worrying in itself, he still felt that if he could secure the Westerlands, a trip back to Winterfell would be manageable.

His musings on battle strategy were broken by a sound outside his door…at least he thought that was where it had come from. Thunder was still rattling in the distance, so it may have been nothing. However, a moment later, there was another thump outside his door. Sighing, he stood from his chair. If he had to guess, one of his night guards had managed to fall asleep and slid down the wall. As Robb opened the door to his solar, ready to lecture the guard on his duties, a flicker of torchlight glinted off a steel dagger that was heading swiftly towards Robb's heart.

He managed to turn at the last moment, but the dagger pierced Robb's bare arm midway above the elbow, lodging itself in the muscle. Robb stumbled backwards, landing on his backside. He looked down and saw that the dagger had remained embedded in his arm, blood freely flowing down all the way to his palm. Realizing he was still in danger, he looked up and saw two figures make their way into his solar, closing his door behind them.

Robb's eyes blaze with fury as he sees Black Walder Frey and his younger brother Petyr standing above him, their swords drawn, blood already dripping down the blades, likely that of his guards. "Never trust a fucking Frey," Robb muttered, grimacing as he pulled the dagger from his arm. "I'm going to hang every one of you traitorous, inbred fucks from the ramparts your own castle and leave you there until the crows scavenge every piece of rotten flesh from you bones."

"It will be hard to do that, seeing as you'll be dead," Black Walder responded.

"Who put you up to this?" Robb questioned, though he was sure he could guess.

Black Walder smirked. "There are many who would pay to see the King in the North dead. Let's just say our loyalty didn't come cheap. There will be a new Lord Paramount of the Trident soon enough. Now, let's make this quick, your grace. Give yourself an easy death."

Robb stood quickly as Black Walker approached, sword raised. Robb reached behind and grabbed a wine jug off his table, throwing it at the man's head with staggering force. Black Walder's sword intercepted the jug, but it exploded into pieces, the shards embedding into the Frey's face. Petyr Frey tried to go to his brother aid, but Robb did not give him a chance. Taking the dagger recovered from his arm, he rushed the younger Frey, bodily shoving him back into a stone wall and shoving the blade into his neck. Blood spurted from the wound as Petyr dropped his sword and reached for his neck, trying to plug the hole. Robb picked up the man's sword and in one vicious swipe detached head from neck.

A scream from behind gave Robb warning, but he wasn't fast enough as Black Walder slashed his exposed back. The cut was deep, and Robb wanted to scream in pain, but held it back, his eyes watering. The blood from his arm was still flowing, and he was have trouble gripping his sword. Black Walder's scarred face bristled with rage as he swung again. Robb deflected the blow and lunged with his own attack, slicing his opponent in this thigh, causing him to drop to his knees.

Robb was exercising on no sleep and was rapidly losing blood. He stumbled slightly as he walked forward, but gathered his remaining strength into a mighty horizontal swing. Black Walder blocked, but the force of Robb's attacked disarmed the man, leaving him defenseless. In a pitch of reckless rage, Robb dropped his sword, raised his fist and began to pummel Black Walder's face, over and over and over, until the man's nose was concave and eye was bulged from the socket. Robb's other hand gripped Black Walker by the hair, refusing to let him fall to the ground as the strikes continued. The pitiful man sobbed as blood and snot poured down his ruined visage.

Not satisfied, Robb gripped the man by his cloaked shoulders, and dragged him over to his solar's smoldering fireplace. Without any bit of remorse, Robb threw Black Walder in. The flames were quick to eat at the Frey's cloak, and soon enough were traveling over the length of his body. Black Walder screamed and flailed, trying everything to extricate himself, but Robb's foot on his side would not allow. Black Walder's fight only served to spread the flames faster, and soon his skin was blistering and melting away. Robb stepped back and watched the traitor die.

Weak, and chilled from the loss of blood, Robb stumbled to his door and pulled it open, desperate to get help. If the Freys had been plotting, they were likely to sabotage his other forces, and he needed to protect his men before it was too late. Lying on the ground, bleeding from multiple wounds, was Robb's guard, Olyvar Frey. His eyes were lifeless. The poor boy had been murdered by his own kin.

Robb made it down several hallways, but soon his adrenaline was gone, and he fell, leaning against a wall. His vision swam in and out. As he finally lost conciseness, the last sounds he heard were screams and the clash of steel.