Just what on earth had he done? He kissed Meera. No, Meera was the one that kissed him. He should have stopped it. But he might have hurt her. Nor did he want to stop it. He had wanted to do more. He wanted to press their bodies closer. Sink his hands and gently caress her sweet beautiful hair. Taste her mouth again.

Gods, what is wrong with me? She had grown up with him by his side, known her all his life. I shouldn't be thinking this way! And yet, he didn't want the thoughts to stop. As embarrassing and strange it was, the thought of it was comforting.

When they gazed at each other as they broke their fast, they desperately put their heads down. Both of them seemed desperate to avoid one another. Not wanting to talk about what had transpired between them.

"JON!" someone shouted. It was Arya with Jojen trailing behind her. Jojen seemed to be more proficient with his archery; nearly beating Theon. He was also getting more proficient in using a sword.

"Meera and Jojen have been showing me how to use a spear! I wanted to show you yesterday!" Arya exclaimed. "Well then, by all means, show me!" he said. Jojen then handed her his spear. Arya's form was impeccable. She was as short and lithe as most crannogmen. And she has seen her archery; she's a natural. Arya might just thrive in the Neck.

"So, how was I?" she asked, her Stark-grey eyes shimmering with glee. "You did well. But don't keep it too close to your body" Jon said. Arya then nodded. Suddenly, someone yelled out her name; possibly that septa she doesn't like. Arya then scurried off.

"Jon. I actually wanted to talk to you about something" Jojen said. Gods, please don't let it be about Meera. "I want to go see the Dreadfort."

"The Dreadfort? Why on earth would you want to go to the Dreadfort?!" Jon cried out. The Dreadfort is ill-omened, for it is said that the Boltons still keep torture chambers and a special room where they hang the flayed skins of their enemies, including several Stark Kings of the North. The tales of the famed horrifying Dreadfort reached even Greywater Watch.

"I need to go there. I don't know how to explain it. But I need to get there" Jojen said. He wanted to protest. He had seen the Lord of the Dreadfort when he came to visit Lord Stark about a concern of wildlings close to the Lonely Hills. Roose has a plain face, beardless and ordinary, with his only noticeable feature being his eerie eyes, which are as pale and strange as two white moons. The lord was of average size with a soft and hairless body and his voice was spider soft. Something about him seemed so unworldly.

Jojen's need to go to the Dreadfort sounded strange. Like he was going to seek some kind of glory. But crannogmen were not built for glory, however. They were built for the back marshes. They were built to survive in the shadows, not sing in the sun. Not that he minded the sun. There were just too many men trying to take a crack at it.

"We'll leave at first light"

He had to admit that Jojen was becoming more in tune with the North as he had. He wasn't an accomplished horsemen but he was more than adequate.

"I think we're getting close to it. I can almost feel it" Jojen said. Feel it. The only reason that they are going to the Dreadfort is because Jojen had a feeling that he had to go there.

"We've passed the White Knife. We just need to keep heading west." Jon said.

"Jon. Are you ever going to talk about it?"

"Talk about what? Why you want to go to the Dreadfort and how you managed to convince me to go with you?"

"No. I mean the kiss between you and my sister" Jojen said in such a calm manner.

"Uh. Um. I-I don't know what you're talking about?!" Jon exclaimed, feeling completely baffled as to how he knew about the kiss. Did Meera tell him?

"You didn't have to say anything and neither did Meera. But you seem to keep turning your heads and blushing when you're near each other"

Ohh, Seven Hells! Was he that obvious?!

"I, um, rather not talk about it, Jojen. Especially with you, all things considering" Jon said, feeling flustered as the words came out of his mouth.

"Understandable. I think we're close to the Weeping Water. We could be near the exact spot where King Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf of the North crushed Argos Sevenstar" jojen said with a certain excitement in his voice.

"Jojen. Just ... why exactly are we going to the Dreadfort?"

"I just have a feeling about it. Well, a dream actually. I dreamt about them all; the Boltons. I dreamt of the Leech Lord and his skin looked as pale as ice, and beginning to leave him. I saw a centaur riding like the wind only to be cut down by a monstrous beast wearing a human's skin. I ... can't really explain it, but then this voice told me to go on forth. Stop the madness, it said."

Jojen had never really been the same since he had caught greywater fever. He wasn't the most liveliest person from the beginning but he certainly knew when was the time for fun and how to have it. His moss-green eyes had somehow become richer and darker. And yet, somehow, Jon understood as to why he had to go to the Dreadfort.

As the followed along the Weeping Water, they saw the faint lines of the Dreadfort up ahead. The Dreadfort looked like a strong fortress, with high walls and triangular merlons that look like sharp stone teeth. It has thick stone walls and massive towers.

"I told you I'd win! Pay up, boys!" someone happily shouted.

They suddenly turned their heads to the apparent group that was coming their way. The leader among them riding a dark horse, riding like the wind. Suddenly, the three horsemen came to a halt.

"Who are you two? And what are you doing in my father's lands?" he asked in an authoritative way but yet kindly manner.

"I'm very sorry. We were just pass ..."

"You're Domeric Bolton. The son and heir of Lord Roose"

"How did you know my name?"

"Your lord father came to talk to Lord Stark about some matters. He had mentioned you in passing"

The youth Domeric Bolton looked perplexed by Jojen's explanation.

"He had? Well, thank you. Yes, I am indeed Domeric Bolton. Son and heir to Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort. And these are my two companions: Ser Waymar Royce and Mychel Redfort"

Domeric Bolton did not look a thing like his father. He was comely, straight as a lance with long dark-brown hair that neatly reached his shoulders. He seemed more Ryswell than Bolton. The only Bolton thing about him was his eyes: pale as stone but darker than milk. Almost like two chips of dirty ice. Lean and lithe and emitted a certain grace about him.

His companions seemed similar to him. Waymar Royce is handsome, graceful and slender, with grey eyes. But whereas Domeric emitted grace and civility, Waymar emitted nothing but arrogance and vanity. Mychel Redfort has a angular rough hewn face and golden-brown hair that somehow enhanced the splendor of his hazel eyes.

"How about you answer Dom's first question as to what you're doing on his lands?" Waymar asked, his hand going for his sword.

"Patience, Waymar. We Remember. How much you can't wait for anything" Mychel guffawed.

"We had been passing by. We are wards of Lord Eddard Stark. This is Jojen Reed; son and heir of Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch."

"You're a crannogman? I should have guessed it but I never seen a crannogman myself. It's a pleasure to meet you. And you are?"

"My name's Jon Snow, my lord"

"A bastard. And to think, my father wants me to rut around with your kind!"

"Shut it, Waymar. You don't know a thing about him"

"And I did promise you that you could easily be a men-at-arms at the Dreadfort"

"Won't matter. A Royce can always rise to glory. Even if it means to lead thieves, rapers and bastards like this ilk."

"He may be a bastard but he's a son of winter. A son of House Stark!"

"Ohh. So, he's what then? The Snow of Winterfell?"

"I'd rather name you Ser Waymar Stone if this is how a knight is to behave. You couldn't be more truer than if it begins to snow in Dorne"

Suddenly, Waymar Royce pursed his lips together. He then got off his horse, and removed his sword from his swordbelt.

"You think you're better than me, Snow? How about you prove yourself? Royce's always remember. And I'll certainly remember crushing Snow underneath my boots"

"Jon ..."

"I accept. But I haven't a sword on me"

"Considering that you are bein challenged in the midst of my lands, then here. I will lend you my sword, Jon Snow" Domeric said kindly.

Both of them readily got into a steady position; staring each other down.

"OY! Jon! Do us all a favour and kick Royce into the snow for all of us!" Mychel Redfort shouted. "For even snow can be as strong as stone!"

This comment seemed to send Waymar into a rage. Charged in head first. He moves quite gracefully but his swings are heavy. Jon is quicker though. Their sword begin to clash furiously. Neither one of them wanted to back down. Jon pressed his blade down, tightening his grip. Waymar pushed back and tried to give him a backhanded strike but Jon easily parried it. Waymar suddenly tried to cut his face but only cut the air.

He is prideful, he's trying to kill me. Jon then aimed for his swordhand. He sliced around his swordhand. Cutting enough for Waymar to wince in pain that he easily knocked off his sword. Jon then kicked him to the ground and placed the sword by his chest.

"Do you yield?"

Waymar said nothing but simply breathed as heavy as a lizard-lion.

"Do you yield?"

"... Yes"

Jon then approached Domeric to return his sword. "You are quite the swordsman, Jon. You ought to fight in the Kingsguard!" Domeric said.

"Thank you, Lord Domeric"

"Dom. Please, that's what all my friends call me."

Domeric, Waymar, Mychel, Jojen and Jon went down to the Dreadfort. Its great hall is dim and smoky, with rows of torches grasped by skeletal human hands jutting from the walls. Long tables stand before a dais with a high table. The hall has a vaulted ceiling and wooden rafters turned black from smoke.

They then found themselves in the presence of two men. One was a small stoop-shoulder man dressed in grey. He must be the maester.

"Lord Domeric! it is so good to see you again, my boy" the maester greeted him.

"It is good to see you again as well, Uthor. But I am just the heir to the Dreadfort. Enough of this. Where's Lynara?" Domeric asked.

"Oh. I'm afraid then I bring some rather grievous news, my lord. Your lord father had passed. Twas a sickness of the bowels. His ... um, son had come to inform me of it"

Son? But Domeric is the only son of Roose Bolton.

"Son?" Domeric exclaimed.

"Oh, yes. I'm terribly sorry about this. Lord Roose had come to invite your ... bastard brother to the Dreadfort. This is him; Ramsay Snow"

He is big boned and slope shouldered, with a fleshiness indicating he will be fat later in life. Ramsay's skin is pink and blotchy, his nose broad, his hair long and dark and dry. Although his mouth is small, Ramsay's lips are wide and meaty, wormy looking, and he smiles a wet-lipped smile. His distinctive eyes resemble Roose's - small, close-set, and oddly pale, like two chips of dirty ice.

"Lord Domeric Bolton. It's an honour to meet with you, dear brother" Ramsay said, and in that same spidery-soft voice of Roose Bolton's.

"Jon" Jojen whispered, tugging at his doublet.

"It's him. It's the monster"