Jon led the group—his siblings, Samwell Tarly, and Tai Lung—across the vast expanse of land surrounding Moat Cailin. The air was crisp, the cold bite of the North making it even more palpable as they approached the execution site. Sam's eyes widened as they neared, and his gaze fell upon a small weirwood tree growing beside the execution point. It was young, its bark pale as bone, with crimson leaves rustling in the wind. But it wasn't the tree that made Sam's stomach churn—it was the rows of grotesque figures splayed out in full display on wooden crosses, backs flayed open, their bloody flesh stretched wide like gruesome wings.

Jon stopped at the head of the group, letting them take in the sight before speaking.

"You see that tree there?" Jon pointed to the weirwood near the execution area. "It's part of the land's old ways. And over there," he gestured toward the distant outline of Moat Cailin's godswood, "there's another weirwood growing inside the castle. We've planted hundreds of heart trees in Frostmore, spreading the reach of the old gods. In time, when they've fully grown, this entire place will be sacred, a true haven for those who still worship the old gods."

Sam turned, his eyes lingering on the heart trees, then back to the eerie sight of the mutilated corpses. "But…what about them?" he asked, his voice faltering. "What kind of execution is this? What are they?"

Robb Stark, standing to Jon's right, had a similar look of confusion, his brow furrowed as he surveyed the scene. "Their backs… they've been flayed open," he said, his voice hard and steady, though tinged with disbelief. "What is this, Jon? Why are they displayed like this?"

Jon Frost—no longer Jon Snow—stood tall, his eyes scanning the rows of lifeless bodies. He crossed his arms, expressionless, as if the sight no longer fazed him.

"It's an old northern execution method," Jon finally said, his voice calm, but with an edge of steel. "The flaying isn't unique to House Bolton, despite what history might say. It's called 'The Blood Eagle,' and it's one of the cruelest punishments known to the North."

Robb's jaw tightened. "I've never heard of this used before other than the old scrolls of Winterfell."

Jon nodded, still unmoved by the horrified expressions around him. "Few have, not anymore. But it's effective. It sends a message. The men you see here," he gestured toward the corpses with a sweep of his hand, "are my enemies. They sought to burn my fields, to starve out the North. They thought they could destroy everything we've built by setting fire to the crops we worked so hard to grow."

Sam looked up, eyes wide in shock. "Burn your fields? Why would anyone do such a thing?"

Jon met his gaze, his expression hardening. "Because, Sam, ever since we stopped relying on the South for grain and food, we've been a thorn in their side. They've lost power over us. The moment Moat Cailin and Frostmore became self-sustaining, the South saw it as a threat. They're used to bleeding the North dry with their prices, forcing us to buy grain at exorbitant rates, especially in winter. But now?" He paused, looking over the land. "We don't need them. And that infuriates them."

Tai Lung, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. His dark eyes flickered between Jon and the grotesque display before them. "So these… people," he began, voice measured, "they're all southern spies?"

Jon nodded, his expression grim. "They were sent to burn our fields, sabotage our food stores, and ensure that the North remained dependent on the South. We caught them in the act."

Robb's voice was quieter now, but no less firm. "Couldn't you have just sent them to the Wall, Jon? Why this?"

Jon turned, meeting his half-brother's gaze, his own eyes cold and unyielding. "The Wall?" he scoffed, shaking his head. "If I sent them to the Wall, it wouldn't matter. More would come. They wouldn't learn their lesson. Southerners have no loyalty to the Night's Watch; they'd send a thousand more spies if they thought all we'd do is exile them north. The only thing they understand is fear. This," he motioned to the flayed corpses, "makes them afraid."

Sam's face paled as he processed Jon's words, his stomach turning at the thought of such a brutal punishment. "But…Jon," he stammered, "this is…this is monstrous."

Jon's voice was colder now, harder. "It's necessary. You think the South will stop with a slap on the wrist? You think mercy will make them change their ways? No, Sam. Mercy won't protect the North. Only strength—and fear—will."

Robb, though visibly disturbed, nodded slowly. "You're trying to send a message."

Jon looked him in the eye. "Exactly. Those who come to burn our fields will see this before they even step foot near Frostmore. They'll know what fate awaits them if they try to harm the North. They'll think twice before sending more agents."

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves of the small weirwood tree as the group stood in silence, processing what they'd just heard. Sam, still unsettled, looked again at the rows of mutilated bodies, then back to Jon.

"And the signs…" Sam said softly, his voice trailing as he saw the wooden boards posted beside the King's Road. "They say anyone who tries to burn the fields or cut down the weirwood trees will suffer the same fate?"

Jon nodded. "The signs are there for a reason. Let every traveler, every merchant, every person who sets foot on this road see what happens to those who betray the North. Let them fear us. Let them know that the old ways still live in the blood of the Starks and the First Men."

Robb turned away, his face grim. "Twenty bodies out here for all to see…you've made your point, Jon. I just hope it's enough to keep them at bay."

Jon didn't respond, but the steely determination in his eyes said everything. He wasn't taking any chances.

"Now," Jon said, breaking the tension, "let's move on. I still have much to show you all." He led them away from the grisly scene, back toward the castle. The weirwood tree, small but growing strong, stood tall beside the execution site, its crimson leaves rustling in the cold northern wind, a silent witness to the harsh justice of the North.

As Jon and his party traveled through the lands surrounding Moat Cailin, they passed village after village, each a testament to the newfound prosperity of the North under Jon Frost's rule. What had once been a bleak, desolate landscape was now dotted with clusters of red-brick buildings, constructed with the abundant clay found in the region. The villages were young, most of them built within the past couple of years, but already they hummed with life and activity.

The bricks, deep crimson and uniform in their craftsmanship, gave the settlements a strong, fortified look. Even the smallest of hamlets had sturdy homes and communal buildings, their structures solid and resilient against the harsh northern winds. For the first time in decades, Moat Cailin looked like more than just a strategic fort—it was now a thriving hub of northern life.

Jon led his siblings, Robb Stark, Samwell Tarly, and Tai Lung, through the heart of one of the larger settlements. As they moved, people stopped their work to bow their heads slightly in acknowledgment, but not out of fear. Their eyes did not show terror or resentment but respect, even admiration. Children played in the muddy streets, soldiers in grey cloaks patrolled with watchful eyes, and the sound of smiths hammering away at their forges filled the air.

The peace in the villages was maintained with an air of vigilance rather than oppression. Soldiers moved among the people, not as overlords, but as protectors, ready to intervene at the first sign of trouble. And it was clear that Jon's rule, though strict, was just.

Sam observed all this with growing curiosity, and after a while, he couldn't keep his thoughts to himself. "I thought, given the sights, that we'd find a land ruled by fear… but the people here don't seem oppressed."

Jon glanced at him, his face thoughtful. "Fear may hold power for a time, but it's fleeting. Respect and loyalty—that's what keeps a land united. I may be harsh on my enemies, but the common folk here know they are safe under my protection. They know that I care about their prosperity."

Tai Lung nodded. "I've seen it for myself. The way they live, the way they work—there is contentment here. Even in the eyes of the elderly, you see it."

They passed by a small marketplace where merchants sold goods—grain, meats, tools, and fabrics. The economy had grown, and it was evident that the people were thriving. Jon gestured to the market as they walked. "Before, most of the North depended on imports from the South for survival. Now, we grow our own crops, we mine our own materials, and we build with our own hands. That is why the South is so eager to undermine us. They fear what the North can become when it no longer needs them."

Sam marveled at the transformation. "And yet, despite your hatred for the southern gods, you allow people to practice their faith."

Jon shrugged, as though it were a simple matter. "I may despise the Faith of the Seven, but I don't punish people for their beliefs. If they want to pray to their gods behind closed doors, that's their choice. I'll not force them to convert."

"But so many have converted," Robb interjected, his voice filled with mild curiosity. "What made them change?"

Jon turned to him with a faint smile. "It's not the sword or threats that changed them. It's the truth they've seen with their own eyes. When the southerners first came here, they clung to their gods, their septons telling them that the Faith would protect them and bring them prosperity. But it wasn't the Seven who gave them food or shelter or security. It wasn't the gods of the South who rebuilt their villages and saved them from starvation. It was me. It was the land, the North, the old gods."

Robb nodded slowly, understanding beginning to dawn. "They converted because the old gods brought them what their southern faith could not."

Jon's smile widened slightly, but it was tinged with cynicism. "Yes, and they saw that here, no one was forcing them to pay for the favor of their gods. No more coin being given to septons to appease some distant, silent deity. That's why so many have turned to the old gods. The old ways are simple, pure. There's no bribery involved. You can't buy the favor of a god."

Sam, always one to think deeply about such things, looked at Jon with a mixture of awe and concern. "And you, Jon? What do you say to those who still believe in the Seven? What do you say when they try to cling to their faith?"

Jon chuckled, though there was no humor in his eyes. "I tell them this—if you can bribe your god with a few coins to change your fate, then he's no god at all. He's your servant. And that's the truth they've come to accept, Sam. They've been giving money to their septons all their lives, hoping for blessings, for prosperity. But what kind of god needs to be paid off to do his job?"

Robb laughed softly at that, the grim humor of it all striking a chord with him. "A god that's no better than a servant."

"Exactly," Jon said, his voice firm. "Here, in the North, we do not bow to such gods. The old gods are silent, yes, but they do not need our coins. They don't demand tribute. They demand respect, and in return, they watch over us. That's why so many southerners have abandoned their faith. They've seen the truth for themselves. The old gods are closer to the land, to the people, than the Seven ever were."

As they walked further, Sam couldn't help but notice the people's faces—the smiles, the peace that seemed to settle over them despite the harsh conditions of the North. There were no septas or septons trying to squeeze every last coin from the people in exchange for empty promises of salvation. Instead, there was real progress, real prosperity.

The red-brick villages stood tall, a symbol of the North's newfound strength and independence. And Jon Frost—cold, unyielding, yet undeniably fair—was the reason for it all. Despite the fear his name instilled in his enemies, his people saw him as a protector, a leader who cared for their well-being.

And as the party moved through the land, Sam realized something—Jon may have been hard, may have been ruthless with those who sought to harm the North, but he was also deeply concerned for the common folk. He had given them a life free of fear, free of exploitation. And for that, they would follow him anywhere.

The wind howled around them as they continued their journey, but even in the icy cold, the warmth of Jon's people could be felt. Moat Cailin, under Jon Frost's rule, was not just surviving. It was thriving.

Author Note:

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