The forest was silent except for the restless snort of a horse and the faint rustle of leaves stirred by a cold wind. Beneath the thick canopy, Jon Snow knelt over a bound figure. His hands were quick and steady as he stuffed a gag into Alliser Thorne's mouth, ignoring the man's furious glare. The torchlight of anger in Alliser's eyes burned brighter than any campfire, but Jon refused to meet it for long. There was no time to waste.
Alliser had chosen a fine mount for pursuit, a tall warhorse with strong legs and sleek muscle. Well-fed and tireless, the animal had carried its rider across miles with hardly a stumble. It was exactly the kind of steed Jon needed. With this horse, he could put leagues between himself and Castle Black, perhaps even reach Winterfell before the Night's Watch realized the full measure of his escape.
The memory of the ambush still lingered in Jon's mind, vivid as fresh blood on snow. It had been deceptively simple, though far from easy. First, Ghost had darted into the shadows, weaving between trees with a fluid grace that only a direwolf could possess. The wolf's sudden movements had drawn eyes and swords alike, scattering the men's attention. Then, from the high branch of an old pine, Jon had dropped like a hawk, steel flashing as he took Alliser by surprise.
It wasn't strength that had won him the fight, nor skill alone. It was Ghost's keen instincts and Jon's strange new gift—his ability to slip his mind into the wolf's and guide his steps through the forest. With Ghost luring Alliser exactly where he wanted, Jon had sprung his trap.
Yet he knew well enough that without the strange "golden finger" guiding his thoughts, he might have blundered into disaster. One wrong step, and he could have run headlong into another ranger patrol, or strayed east into a cluster of recruits. If not for that strange advantage, the careful snares and diversions he'd set would never have been laid in time.
Now, though, he had what he needed: a clear chance to flee.
Jon swung into the saddle of the stolen warhorse, feeling its power beneath him. But when he looked back, his gaze lingered on Alliser. The man squirmed furiously against the ropes, his muffled curses spilling out from behind the gag. His eyes promised vengeance.
Something in Jon stirred—an instinct, a thought he could not ignore. He dismounted again, sword in hand, and strode toward his bound foe.
Alliser froze.
"Mmm—mmm—!"
The gag muffled his cry, but the terror in his eyes spoke clearly enough. He had always mocked Jon, called him a bastard and worse, but now—now he was as helpless as any man tied and gagged in the dirt. He shook his head violently, a frantic rattle, as if the gesture alone could spare him. He thrashed like a worm tossed into salt, every muscle straining.
Jon stopped just before him, the cold edge of his longsword gleaming. For a heartbeat, Alliser truly believed this boy—this bastard—meant to kill him. His blood ran cold.
Jon only cut through the cloak with a swift motion, then draped it over Alliser's head, blinding him. That way, when the man was found, he would not be able to reveal Jon's direction of flight.
Alliser sagged, trembling harder than before. His pride was in tatters.
Jon turned away, his decision made. Yet as he stepped back toward the horse, something else caught his eye. Lying in the mud was Alliser's greatsword. The hilt gleamed with yellow amber, the craftsmanship fine, its balance and edge far superior to Jon's own blade. A noble's sword—far more than a mere weapon.
Jon hesitated only a moment before picking it up. In Westeros, it was tradition to return a defeated foe's weapon. But Jon was not beholden to their traditions. He was not just a Night's Watch recruit anymore—he was something else. To him, the sword was not a trophy but a reckoning. Alliser had mocked and tormented him at every turn. Taking the sword felt like justice, a repayment for every insult endured.
"Ghost, let's go."
The direwolf bounded ahead as Jon swung into the saddle once more. In a heartbeat, boy and beast disappeared into the trees, leaving nothing behind but a man tied to a trunk and the echo of hooves fading into the distance.
---
"Ser Alliser! Ser Alliser!"
The voice rang out some time later, carried on the forest air.
Alliser thrashed in his bonds and forced a guttural sound past the gag: "Mmm! Mmm—!"
His struggles grew frantic as footsteps approached. At last, two fresh-faced recruits stumbled into the clearing. One recognized the bulky form tied against the tree and muttered in disbelief, "Gods, it's him. It has to be Ser Alliser."
The other reached for the ropes, but his companion grabbed his wrist.
"Wait. Think for a moment. You remember how this man treats us?"
The recruit hesitated. Memories of harsh words, cruel drills, and public humiliations surged back.
"Then what should we do?" he whispered.
They stepped aside to whisper in low voices, and soon enough, they were gone. Moments later, a dozen recruits slipped into the clearing, their faces shadowed with anticipation.
Alliser had no idea. He still believed his men were coming to rescue him. He struggled desperately, whimpering through the gag. His honor was already in ruins; if they saw him like this, how could he ever command them again?
"Charge together!" someone barked.
Then the blows came.
Fists, boots, and elbows rained down in a storm. The air filled with the sound of grunts, laughter stifled into silence, and the meaty thuds of flesh meeting flesh. The recruits attacked with reckless glee. Some had old grudges to settle. Others simply enjoyed the rare chance to strike a man who had lorded over them for so long.
It was chaos, but to them, it was catharsis.
For years, the Night's Watch had filled its ranks with criminals, thieves, and bastards cast out by their kin. They were men used to taking what little power they could grasp. Now, faced with the chance to beat their tormentor, they seized it with abandon.
"Let me get a punch!" one cried.
"Move over, it's my turn!" shouted another.
The frenzy was so fierce that some men couldn't even reach Alliser, shoved back by the press of bodies.
Alliser's muffled screams turned to groans. His head swam. He could no longer tell where one blow ended and another began.
---
"Stop! Stop, you fools!"
Two familiar voices cut through the din. Pypar and Grenn pushed into the clearing, their faces pale. For a moment, they thought Jon was the one being pummeled. They rushed forward to intervene.
But then Pypar caught sight of the fallen cloak and the bruised, half-conscious face beneath it. His mouth fell open.
"Alliser?"
The relief in his tone was unmistakable. Jon was gone, but Alliser… Alliser had been given the recruits' full measure of hatred.
Grenn, looming tall, froze at the sight. A slow, mischievous grin tugged at his lips. The man who had branded him "Aurochs"—a mocking name for his size and slowness—was finally the one sprawled helpless on the ground.
"Everyone, clear out!" Grenn barked, his voice deep as a horn.
The recruits scattered reluctantly. But just as they stepped away, the cloak slipped fully from Alliser's face.
He blinked through swollen eyes, barely raising his head—only to find a massive boot hovering inches from his nose. Grenn had lifted his foot, ready to stomp.
Fury surged through Alliser's battered body. His voice cracked the air like a whip:
"What are you doing!"
The recruits froze. Grenn's foot hung suspended, his grin faltering.
"Uh… my lord," he stammered, cheeks reddening, "do you… do you like my shoes?"
The clearing fell into stunned silence. Then came the barely contained chuckles, the smirks hidden behind hands.
The moment of defiance passed. No one dared strike Alliser again. Instead, they rushed to untie him. Yet the damage was done—his pride had been shredded more thoroughly than his cloak. He staggered to his feet, aching from head to toe, his authority in tatters.
"Where's my sword!" he bellowed.
The recruits scattered, scouring the ground, but the sword was gone. Not even Ranger Qhorin, who arrived shortly after, could find it.
Qhorin's eyes flickered with understanding as the story unraveled. "Ser Alliser, we should return. Maester Aemon has already written to Winterfell. By now, Jon may be too far ahead to catch."
The words hit harder than any fist.
Alliser's face turned from red to ashen white. To be ambushed by a boy, stripped of his warhorse and sword—these were not mere losses. They were insults no noble could bear. His honor, his authority, his very standing among the Watch—gone.
Qhorin, though, could not hide a trace of admiration. If Jon Snow had remained, he might have been one of the Watch's finest rangers. The boy's cunning, his courage, even his strange bond with the direwolf—such things were rare.
But Alliser's voice, ragged and cold, cut through the forest.
"Robb Stark will not let his bastard brother go. He will take Ice, the ancestral blade of House Stark, and with it, he will sever Jon's head himself."
His words sent a chill down the recruits' spines. Even Grenn and Pypar, who had laughed moments before, now stood pale and silent...
For the first time, they realized Jon's escape was not just defiance. It was a storm gathering on the horizon—one that could bring blood, steel, and the wrath of Winterfell crashing down upon them all.
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