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The North did not care about their mission as it offered no clear roads, no breaks in the wind, and absolutely no warmth.
They had been riding east for two days, leaving the shadow of Winterfell far behind. The terrain had shifted from the rolling, snow dusted plains of the Stark heartland into thicker, more treacherous territory.
Jon rode at the front, the collar of his black cloak pulled high over his nose while ghost ranged ahead silently.
Behind Jon, however, the silence was entirely ruined.
"I'm telling you, it was a bear," Goran's voice boomed over the wind, thick with leftover bravado and chewed dried beef. "Stood ten feet tall. I hit it with an axe, and the axe just bounced off!"
"You've never seen a bear, you lying sack of shit," Hake shot back, his rusted chainmail jingling with every step his garron took. Clink... Clank... Jingle...
"Closest you've been to a bear is that hairy whore down at the Smoking Log."
The other three men laughed, a loud, barking sound that echoed through the quiet woods.
Jon closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose beneath his hood.
In all those video games he played, you just pointed your units at the enemy and clicked but in reality, commanding a group of medieval street thugs was like trying to herd heavily armed toddlers.
They were riding into the territory of the most notoriously cruel House in the North, and they were announcing their presence like a traveling troupe.
Jon pulled hard on the reins and the horse stopped.
Behind him, the column stumbled into a halt. One of the men's horses bumped into Goran's, prompting a fresh wave of cursing.
"Problem, boss?" Duncan asked, trotting his massive black destrier up to the front.
The mercenary, to his credit, rode quietly. Years of surviving the Disputed Lands had taught him the value of silence.
Jon didn't answer immediately, just dismounted, his boots crunching loudly in the crusty snow as he walked back down the short line of men.
They fell silent, unnerved by the flat, dead look in his grey eyes.
He stopped in front of Hake.
"Get off the horse," Jon ordered.
Hake blinked, his hand resting on the pommel of his saddle. "We making camp, Lord Snow? Bit early, ain't it?"
"Get.... Off."
Hake scrambled down and when his boots hit the ground, his loose armor and poorly packed saddlebags made a sound like a sack of silverware being kicked down a flight of stairs.
Jon pointed at the ground.
"Jump."
"What?"
"Jump in the air, Hake....Up and down."
Looking thoroughly confused, Hake did a small hop.
Clink-jingle-clank.
"You sound like a jester's hat," Jon said, his voice dangerously low as he looked at the rest of the men.
"All of you do, we are riding into Bolton lands. Roose Bolton's men patrol these woods, and If they hear us coming, they won't fight us head on. They will put a crossbow bolt through your eye from the tree line before you even know they're there and not only that if you are unfortunate to survive, they will take you to their secret chamber and flay your skin out of you."
The men shifted uncomfortably, the joke about the bear was entirely forgotten.
Jon walked over to Hake's horse and pulled a spare tunic from the man's saddlebag, drew his dagger, and began slicing the fabric into long strips.
" I am gonna teach you all some stuff." Jon announced. He tossed a handful of the cloth strips at Goran. "Tie down your scabbards. Wrap the loose rings of your mail and if you have pots or cups in your bags, stuff them with moss so they don't rattle. I want you all so quiet I can hear you breathe."
For the next twenty minutes, the march was halted while the men performed their improvised tailoring. Duncan helped, showing Goran how to secure his axe to his belt so the wooden haft didn't slap against his thigh with every step.
When they were finished, Jon made them all jump, it wasn't perfect silence, but the metallic clattering was gone, replaced by the dull, muted thud of leather and cloth.
"Better," Jon judged. "Now for the second problem, your mouths."
He stood in front of them, folding his arms.
"If we spot the target, or if we stumble into a Bolton patrol, shouting orders will get us killed so we are going to use hand signals. Learn them now, or I will leave you tied to a tree."
He raised his right hand, making a tight fist. "This means halt, when you see the fist, you stop moving....Instantly."
He flattened his hand, pushing it downward in a patting motion. "This means get down. Drop off your horse, hit the snow, and don't move."
He pointed two fingers at his own eyes, then pointed toward the woods. "This means eyes on. It means I see something, or you see something, you pass the signal down the line."
He ran through the signals three more times. Goran struggled with the eyes on gesture, accidentally pointing at his own nose, but a sharp cuff to the back of the head from Duncan quickly corrected his form.
"Are we soldiers now, Snow?" Duncan asked, a wry smile hidden in his beard.
"This isn't how the Northern lords fight, they like to blow horns and scream about their ancestors."
"Which is why their ancestors are all dead in the crypts," Jon replied dryly. "I don't care about fucking honor, I only care about the element of surprise. If we do this right, we will be back to winterfell soon, also Duncan you will teach others when we get back."
Jon swung back into his saddle.
"We stagger the line," Jon instructed, looking back. "Five paces between each horse and don't bunch up. If they shoot an arrow, I don't want it hitting two of you by accident. Keep your eyes on the tree line. We cross the Weeping Water by tomorrow."
He raised his right hand, index finger pointing forward.....Move out.
The difference was immediate, the banter died completely and the men rode with their backs straighter, their eyes darting to the shadows between the trees. The jingling of armor was gone, replaced only by the steady, rhythmic crunch of hooves on snow and the whistling of the wind.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, Jon called a halt with a raised fist, the men stopped instantly, no one bumping into the horse ahead of them.
" Let's camp here," Jon whispered, the command passed down the line in hushed tones.
Jon retreated to the base of a massive oak tree and pulled his heavy cloak over his head to shield himself from view and in the pitch black beneath the wool, he pulled out his phone.
The screen glowed softly as he opened the map application and checked the GPS pin he had dropped based on the Chatgpt's lore coordinates.
They were close, 15 miles to the bend in the river.
Tomorrow, Jon thought, locking the screen and plunging himself back into the darkness. Tomorrow, the Flayed Man gets skinned.
Authors Note:-
Well .... Those are just thugs.... They needed some guerrilla tactics teaching.... And all others will be taught as well..... a great millitary ass whooping montage is necessary.
So how have you guys been .... Enjoying it....
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