First of all, I'd like to apologise for this not updating, and for all the false alarms from whenever I tried to (unsuccessfully) update. Hopefully this should work, and if it doesn't this message is irrelevant because you won't be able to read it anyway. Still, enjoy.

Jon

The column's marching—or rather walking, given the distinct lack of any real military training—drew to a sudden halt at Jon's signal, a raised fist followed by a bellow of Tormund, with subsequent shouts ringing down the chain. With a single movement, three thousand loyal men, women, and children stopped without a word of complaint or argument.

Why couldn't being Lord Commander be this easy?

Jon shook his head and dismounted before taking three steps forward, his hand slowly moving to Longclaw's hilt and the snow crunching under his feet as he approached what had stopped him in the first place.

A flaying rack. A single body was displayed on it, with corpses littered around it—ten with mismatched Bolton livery, and five of the flaming Baratheon stag.

Despite what certain free folk had said in the past, he did know some things—for example, he knew that although flaying had been outlawed since the days of the Red Kings, it had never truly fallen out of the practice with the Boltons, and that the recent wars had elevated their pastimes to whole new heights. They were a day's march from the Dreadfort, Jon knew, in the heart of Bolton territory

He didn't know, however, how bad a flayed corpse really smelt. The stench of rotting muscles and stagnated blood bombarded him, and by the time he was within a metre of the body his reflexes had taken over, doubling him over as bile surged up, splattering into the newly settled snow and missing his boots by less than an inch.

'You can't spew every time you see a corpse, crow,' came a voice from behind him. The free folk follow strength, and that won't exactly give them too much hope about who they've followed.'

'Fuck off Tormund,' Jon said before wiping his mouth and drawing himself back up to full height.

'Still, even for a free folk… this is monstrous. I thought we'd got the bastard that did this,' the Wildling said, peering curiously at a maggot burrowing through the corpse's cheek.

'We did. His men, however, are a different story.' Jon paused for a moment before turning to his friend. 'Tell me, Tormund. How many sick people—and I mean, truly depraved people, who feel no purer joy than when steel pierces flesh—have you met in your life?'

'Four? Maybe five? You know, it never occurred to me to count them.'

Jon nodded. 'Ramsay had twelve, each as deluded and sadistic as him. The Bastard's Boys, they called themselves. Ten were found amongst the bodies at Winterfell, but I assumed the bodies were simply lost amongst all the other fallen before being burnt. I…I now see that I was wrong.'

'K-kill…me…'

Jon and Tormund both lurched back as the corpse began to speak, its neck craning up ever so slightly and its naked eyes twitching up. It was no wonder they'd thought it a corpse—the musclewas rotting and necrotic, and Jon would've scarcely believed that one in a thousand men wouldn't succumb whilst being flayed.

This, Jon realised, was no such man. He recognised the eyes, and even the rasping beg that had left the lips moments ago managed to retain some of its prior haughtiness.

'Q-queen Selyse?'

Her eyes met his for a moment, and there was a flicker of recognition.

'S-snow…find…h-her…' The effort to speak was clearly momentous, although the result was scarcely a whisper.

'Who?'

'Shireen… don't… don't let him… get her. No…matter… what.' Her eyes bored into his, and Jon realised exactly what was being asked.

He nodded. 'Of course, your highness. I'll look after her as if she were one of my own.' He neglected to mention that her chances of surviving on her own in the North, with a sadist with sharp blades and a preference for young virgins, were slim to say the least. 'I swear it.'

She managed a nod, and what might have once been considered a smile. 'Now… please… e-end… it…'

Jon remembered how when he'd been a boy, one of Farlen's dogs had been injured during a hunt, its innards hanging out following a tangle with a wolf. His father had turned his and Robb's heads away, before the tell-tale sound of steel piercing flesh could be heard. Jon had asked whether the beast had deserved to die, and his father had simply shaken his head.

"He did not deserve death, Jon," Lord Eddard had told him. "After this many years of loyal service he gave us, the better question would be, did he deserve life, and all the suffering that came with it?"

Jon had nodded but had never given it enough thought to truly understand. Until now.

'Very well, your highness.'

As longclaw entered and exited her heart in one swift motion, she gave a slight grunt, but the ghost of a smile flitted over her face as the little light there'd been left her eyes.

Jon turned back to Tormund. 'We'll set up camp here tonight. Tell the men to prepare pyres. We...we have a queen to burn.'

'Crow!' At the sound of the shout, Jon left his tent, looking for whoever'd called him. There was a gathering of fifteen or so outside, each with their gaze focused at one person—a person Jon had not expected to see.

'Alright, Crow?' Val asked, a dangerous smirk on her face. 'Can't say I thought I'd see you any time soon.'

'Likewise. What are you doing here? Jon asked. Since the Free Folk had left the Wall for Torrhen's Square, he'd occasionally wondered where Mance's good-sister had vanished to. He'd assumed she and her followers had taken up Stannis' cause before Jon had died, but then again Stannis hadn't been heard from in months—in all, Jon had honestly assumed they were dead.

'The kneeler king promised us passage through the wall if we fought for him, before he died,' she said. 'I now see that was a waste of bloody freedom.' She spat into the snow. 'His men are at the pointy fortress right now waiting for the snows to lessen.'

The pointy fortress? 'The Dreadfort?'

'Aye, I heard some call it that, although I'm not sure of the point personally. I felt no dread, although there were plenty of spikes.'

Jon remembered Ygritte's wonder at seeing the roundtowers of the Gift, believing them to be built by kings. He smiled. After all, Val wasn't wrong—for certain brave souls, the Dreadfort likely wouldn't evoke dread, although only a lackwit or a liar could deny the castle's pointiness.

This certainly isn't ideal. I promised them the Dreadfort, but I can't imagine Stannis' men being too willing to simply hand it over.

'Again, what are you doing here?'

Val paused, and took a moment to think. 'The kneeler king's wife and daughter were stolen from the fortress, seven days past. The men sent to bring them back never returned, so me and mine were tasked with bringing them back.'

Shit.

'The queen is already dead,' Jon told her. 'She'd been flayed, and I killed her myself.'

Val spat into the snow again, albeit this time with decidedly more force. 'Fucking animals. The girl?'

'Alive, as far as I know. Knowing Bolton's man, however, I doubt she'll be so for much longer. I assume you're tracking him?'

'Aye.'

'Is he close?'

'Aye.'

'Good.' Buckling Longclaw to his belt, he moved to saddle his horse. 'I'll follow you. Tormund! Get ready to move!'

'What are you doing?' she hissed.

'I made a promise, my lady, and I intend to keep it. If I can't…' he broke off and his eyes darkened.

Val nodded and uttered an order to one of her followers in the old tongue, before turning back to Jon. 'Let's go.'

The Scaled Princess

There had been few times in her life she'd ever even been remotely grateful for her scars—they'd made her an outcast, had nearly killed her as an infant, and would make any man reluctant to even look at her, let alone wed her. Still, the fact that there was a patch—as small as it might be—of her face that was not subjected to the violent scratching of the rough sack forced over her face was a small mercy, one of few she'd had over the last few days.

Those mercies had not, however, extended to being deafened to her mother's screams, nor being unfeeling to the cold steel that had traced her belly when she'd protested.

Shireen had spent the past week or so under the hood—with occasional breaks for food and water—but it took only a moment of vicious cursing from her captor for its removal. The early morning light was blinding, and she was unable to clearly see, even as she was lifted off the horse's rump and shoved roughly to the ground. There'd been more men before, she knew, but at the same time that her mother had gone, so had all the others—now only one voice remained, muttering to itself before erupting into a shout.

'Stay back or the girl dies!' In an instant, cold steel was at her neck.

She could hear a horse whinny in the background and as her eyes adjusted she could see three figures slowly make their way towards her. The identity of one eluded her, and she knew they'd never met, because she was certain she'd remember such a man—he was like a bear, with the height and the hair to match. Then again, she'd never heard of a bear wielding an axe.

The other two, however, she knew—or at least, knew of. The face of Jon Snow was passive, but even from this distance she could see his hand slowly moving to his hilt. He, and the bear-man stopped, although the final figure continued to move towards them, bone-knife bared and face full of fury.

No! Shireen thought. Stay back! He'll kill me!

'You fucking craven!' Val shouted. 'You don't dare fight a warrior, but hide behind a little girl! I'm going to gut you like the animal you are! I'll feed your flesh to the hounds and roast my meat on your bones!' By now, she was ten or so feet away.

The man simply laughed—it was barely more than a raspy bark, but could be considered a laugh nonetheless. 'Take another step and I'll slit her throat right here, you stupid bitch!'

Shireen began to shake.

'See? She knows I'll do it,' the man said. 'It's always more fun when they're scared.'

For once in her life, Shireen wasn't scared. Who did this man think he was, that he could steal her and her mother, torturing and raping and killing as he pleased with no justice? He saw her as no more than a scared little girl. That was his big mistake.

She was currently knelt in the snow, the man stood behind her with his groin uncomfortably close to the back of her head. The blade, which had once been pressed tightly against her throat, was drifting further and further as he was engrossed in his trade of insults with the wildling princess. This was her chance.

She slammed her head back, her skull crashing into the man's pelvis and sending him reeling with a high-pitched yelp before he could have the knife back at her neck. It had provided distraction for a mere second or two.

That, it seemed, was all Val needed.

The Wildling Princess

The first slash was clumsy, merely done to keep the bastard's knife away from the kneeler princess. He jumped back, a good foot or so away from her knife, but the princess had fallen forward, unharmed, so Val was satisfied enough. She could vaguely hear the crow behind her rushing to help the girl, although at that moment she didn't particularly care—right now, her priority was the man before her.

The second slash was closer, although by now the man had found his bearings and was ready to fight back. As such, they entered the inevitable start of every knife fight Val had ever had the pleasure to take part in. They circled each other, her eyes never leaving his, both testing the reactions of the others.

She wasn't so foolish as to believe that this man was unskilled—after all, he'd been able to recover with impressive speed, and if he were fighting any kneeler, he'd stand a good chance of emerging victorious. Unfortunately for him, he'd never fought one of the free folk before.

Unlike the soldiers she'd seen at the pointy fortress, where they would circle each other for insane amounts of time before beginning the fight, Val had always been taught to strike first. As such, when she leapt at him whilst he was still circling, he barely had time to move before her dagger sliced into his upper chest. The blood hit the snow and the man was sent tumbling. He made it barely two steps on his knees before her blade entered the side of his neck. The man fell with a whimper, and that was that.

'Is the girl hurt?' she called back to her companions as she wiped her blade on the man's cloak.

'She's fine,' Tormund called back. 'Cold and shaken, but since then has that ever hurt anyone?'

Good. The last thing she'd needed was another corpse to deal with. 'She can ride with one of you.'

With that, she mounted her horse and began to trot off, leaving the others to follow. She'd be lucky to reach the fortress by sundown, and they wouldn't have a prayer of doing so if the others planned to continually move as slowly as they currently were.

Jon

'…And so, once the snows clear, we shall march south and put the lady Shireen where she is supposed to be—on the Iron Throne.' The voice of Ser Justin Massey was deep and strong and wholly befitting a man of his station, but was distinctly undercut by the fact that he clearly did not believe a word he was saying.

Upon reaching the Dreadfort, it had been apparent that the men who'd once followed Stannis Baratheon were lost. Many years and many leagues away from home, they'd suffered defeat after defeat, staying strong enough in their belief that Stannis would one day see the throne, all for a fever to tear through him within a month of leaving the wall. His last words had been an order, telling his men to put Shireen on the throne, but the men were tired, and she was not the ruler her father had been.

Jon had scarcely been there an hour, and already was being drawn into the petty squabbles of the council who'd been in control since the death of Stannis—a coalition of lords and landed knights, each with small factions supporting them but never enough to make a credible grab for power. As such, they'd remained still, living off the harvest the Bolton's had requisitioned from the smallfolk, neither moving to put Shireen on the throne nor to return home for the past few moons.

Jon took a sip from his tankard, more as a way to buy himself time to think than for real refreshment. He had to be careful, he knew, but still bold enough that he wouldn't appear weak. 'What if I told you, Ser, that I frankly do not care who sits the throne?'

'I'd call you a liar, Lord Snow,' the knight replied. 'Then again, I'm not sure that such an insult would mean anything to a deserter.' His voice was not unkind, but there was a definite hint of blame. After all, as far as he knew Jon was a deserter, and as such couldn't particularly be trusted in battle. 'Everything depends on the throne, and I daresay you'd need the throne's aid to retake Winterfell.'

'You do not know?' Jon asked. 'Winterfell was taken three moons ago, and the Riverlands are currently being liberated. Were you truly unaware?'

The young knight had the good grace to look somewhat abashed. 'The Boltons killed all of their ravens before leaving, and none have arrived. I suppose it makes sense, if they're all dead.' He took a sip of ale and frowned before looking Jon straight in the eye. 'If you have taken your home, what need have you of ou—Her Highness' men? Don't get me wrong, we all appreciate returning the, uh, queen to us, but why would you do so, especially since you have no stake in this war?'

Just what I was looking forward to—the part where I sound like a raving madman.

'Tell me, Ser Justin, did you ever hear of Lord Beric Dondarrion and his Myrish priest?'

'I assume you mean the resurrections?' At Jon's nod, he took another sip and nodded himself. 'Aye, I've heard of them. I don't believe the stories of course, but I know what you're speaking of. Why?'

Jon swallowed before standing. 'Because…well, because you should believe them.' He unclasped his cloak, which fell to the ground in a heap, before he went to unlace his jerkin. His fingers were still numb from the cold and it was slow work, but Justin said nothing, his eyebrows only rising slightly as he watched Jon remove his shirt. Then he saw the scars, and all pretence of courteousness vanished. The knight's eyes bulged out of their sockets, and the next words that made any attempt at leaving his mouth were stammered beyond any comprehension.

'I was killed by my sworn brothers and the lady Melisandre brought me back.' Jon cringed as he said it, knowing how ludicrous it must've sounded, but decided to press on. Justin seemed to be of sound enough mind, after all, with his faith in R'hllor refreshingly balanced with common sense, unlike many of the other followers of Stannis. 'The dead, millions strong, march on the Wall, ser, and soon the war for the throne will seem like little more than children squabbling over a toy.'

Justin was in the process of refilling his tankard and merely nodded, his hands shaking as he moved it to his lips. 'Your words may be mad, but my eyes are not—it makes no sense, but I'd stake my life that you'd had a blade in your heart. Or rather, many blades. For some reason, I...I find myself believing you.' He placed the tankard down and looked at Jon straight in the eye. 'I'll be blunt, Lord Snow. We do not have the men, nor the motivation, to put Lady Shireen on the throne. Our men have been leaving us in droves, and now that your people have arrived the wildlings are near double our number. We do not have food to sustain ourselves for much longer, and when winter truly sets in there is no doubt that illness will take a great many more. Why should we fight alongside you—our homes are many leagues away, and we will doubtless be able to fortify ourselves better there.'

'True,' Jon conceded, putting his leathers back over his shirt. 'And as such we will have far too few numbers and will likely die in the attempt to hold them off. Sure, we'll take as many of them down as we can, but the lives lost in the attempt will provide the dead with all the soldiers they lost, and more. And then what—as you cower in your southern castles, a new, stronger army of the dead will march south, wiping out everything between you and them and adding them to their ranks? I fear your fortifications would do precious little in that case, Ser.'

The knight looked uncomfortable but nodded. 'You make a strong case. But even if we fight with you, how can you be sure you'd win?'

'A man that I trust more than any other is currently in Essos, looking for allies.' Jon had a moment of realisation and paused. 'The Masseys are a Crownland house, are they not?'

'We are.'

'Loyal to the true kings, aye?

'Aye.'

'And if I had a proposition that would have Shireen safe, and Lady of Storm's End, would you accept it?'

At this, Justin paused, apparently deep in thought. 'It was her father's last wish that she would be crowned, and by all the laws of gods and men she is the legitimate heir to the throne. But…I have come to care for the girl, and I do not believe she'd last the year on the throne. So, yes, I think I would take this proposition whatever it is, and whoever took the throne in the meantime could hang for all I cared.'

'Excellent,' Jon replied. 'Tell me Ser, what do you know about dragons?'

Ser Justin had only just opened his mouth to speak when the door swung open, crashing into the cold stone wall, with a soldier of house Massey appearing breathless. 'Ser!'

'What?'

'Our scouts found a man, claiming to be Theon Greyjoy!'

At this, both Jon and Justin stood and moved to leave. The soldier, however, was not done.

'He said…he said he had Arya Stark with him.'

A/N: Another chapter done. I hope you like it-Jon was never particularly my favourite character, but I can't deny that I quite enjoyed writing his POV. As usual, feel free to follow, favourite, and review, and cheers to those who have. You guys all massively help with motivation for writing, and it couldn't be done without you.

There's been some glitch with that hasn't allowed this chapter to upload, instead only showing a basic stat about my profile, and I still frankly have no idea if this is going to work.

Next chapter will return to Essos, but in the meantime I hope you've enjoyed this chapter.

Thanks again, and see you soon,

-Kinginthenorth1

Kingmanaena: Thank you!