The clearing reeked of blood and wet earth. Ghost crouched low in the mud, his muzzle red to the jaw, his growl a constant rumble that set the remaining Bolton hounds whimpering. Jon stood with Dark Sister in hand. The world seemed to slow, narrowed to one figure before him—Ramsay Snow, bastard of Bolton, mounted on his black courser with that vile smirk plastered on his pale face.
"Snow," Ramsay drawled, voice thick with mockery. "The gods have a sense of humor. I've chased deer, fox, even girls through these lands. But to find you—a wolf cub who strayed too far from the pack. Perhaps I'll flay you slow, piece by piece, and send your hide back to your whore mother for a rug."
Jon's fingers tightened on the hilt. The memory of Winterfell aflame burned behind his eyes—the screams of his men dying on the fields of the Bastard's battle, Rickon's small body pierced by an arrow, the hounds tearing flesh from the bones of many innocents. He had thought Ramsay's end had come and gone in another life, but fate had thrust him here, blade in hand, with the chance to make it right.
This time, there would be no death his hands.
"Come down and face me," Jon said, his voice low. "Or stay on that horse and die a coward."
Ramsay's grin widened, teeth bared. He looked sideways, and two of his men spurred forward with lances aimed.
Ghost moved first. The direwolf sprang, white blur of muscle, dragging one rider clean from the saddle with a scream. Jon met the second head-on—Dark Sister slicing through the shaft of the lance before driving deep into the man's chest. The rider gurgled and toppled from his horse, blood bubbling from his lips.
But Jon's eyes never left Ramsay.
The bastard slid from his horse at last, loosing a sword from his belt. His grin never faltered, even as the corpses of his men sank into the mud around him.
"You think yourself hard, Snow? You think swinging one pretty sword makes you a knight? I'll gut you slow and feed your wolf your heart."
Jon stepped forward, mud sucking at his boots, Dark Sister gleaming like dusk in his hand.
They clashed. Ramsay struck fast, his sword darting low and high, seeking a gap. Jon met him with measured precision, parrying once, twice, letting the older blade guide his hand. Ramsay was quick with his attacks, snapping like hounds. Jon was calm, relentless, every stroke heavier with memory—of Rickon's small body sprawled lifeless in the snow, of Sansa's haunted eyes, of men crucified on Bolton crosses.
Ramsay lunged, snarling, and Jon's sword sang. Dark Sister slipped through leather and flesh, cutting deep into Ramsay's side. The bastard staggered, breath hissing, yet he laughed even then, spitting blood.
"Is that all the wolf's bite? My hounds bite harder."
Jon's rage flared, but he did not let it blind him. He pressed forward, driving Ramsay back step by step. Their blades clashed again, sparks flying, until Jon caught his arm, twisted, and sent his sword spinning into the mud.
Ramsay stumbled, falling to his knees. His pale eyes flashed with fear for the first time.
"No—" he began.
Jon drove Dark Sister through his chest.
The bastard's laughter turned to a strangled gasp. His eyes bulged, his mouth working soundlessly. Jon wrenched the blade free, and Ramsay toppled into the mire, the mud swallowing his blood in dark pools.
Jon stood over the body, chest heaving with exhaustion. He looked upon the lifeless face of Ramsay Snow—smirk gone, eyes glassy—and felt no triumph. Only the heavy weight of justice, long delayed.
For Rickon. For Winterfell. For every soul that had burned, bled, and screamed beneath this monster's hand.
Jon knelt and wiped the blade clean in the grass, his hands holding it reverently. Dark Sister gleamed again, untouched by the filth of Bolton blood. Silently, he wrapped it once more in its oiled cloth, hiding its dark beauty from the world.
Only then did he turn to the woman.
She had collapsed against the roots of a willow, her breaths ragged, her dress torn and muddied. Fear lingered in her wide eyes, but she no longer trembled as he approached. Ghost padded to her side, red-streaked and growling low, but at Jon's touch the direwolf stilled.
"You're safe now," Jon said, his voice quieter, almost gentle.
She blinked at him, studying his face, then nodded slowly. "I… I thank you, ser. I thought he would…" Her words broke, and she pressed a hand to her mouth before steadying herself.
Jon lowered himself to sit in the mud across from her, giving her space. "I am not a knight. What's your name?"
She drew a shaky breath. "Allana Umber. Daughter of Greatjon. Younger sister to Smalljon."
Jon's heart clenched, though his face betrayed nothing. Smalljon… In previous life, the man had betrayed him at the Battle of the Bastards. But this sister—he had never known of her. Which meant her fate, like so many, had been cruelly swallowed by time.
"And what were you doing here, Lady Allana?" Jon asked softly.
Her lips quirked in a wry, bitter smile. "Hunting. A stag, if you believe the gods mockery. Instead I found a Bolton bastard and his curs." Her gaze fell toward Ramsay's corpse. "He would have… I would not have seen another dawn."
Jon inclined his head. "Then it seems the gods wished it otherwise."
They sat in silence for a moment, broken only by the soft patter of rain and Ghost's steady breathing.
Jon's thoughts twisted darkly. This woman—this Umber—was a piece of a puzzle he had never seen before, a life erased in his past, restored now by fate's crooked hand. How many others lived and died unknown, swallowed by the conflicts he didn't even know of?
He did not know yet. But he knew one thing: the wheel was turning again, and this time he could not turn from it.
He rose at last, offering her a hand. "Come. The forest is no place to linger with dead men."
Allana Umber hesitated, then took it. Her grip was strong despite the blood on her hands.
Together, they left Ramsay Snow behind, his corpse serving as meal of animals.