The three mastiffs, bellies full and muzzles stained black with rapidly freezing blood, collapsed into the snow as they simply curled up near the roots of the dead oak tree, panting heavily, exhausted by their first real meal in weeks.
Jon stood a dozen paces away, his sword already wiped clean and sheathed as he stared at the base of the tree.
There was very little left to identify the Bastard of the Dreadfort. The pale pink cloak was shredded into bloody ribbons and the face was completely unrecognizable, the throat torn open, the flesh of the limbs stripped down to the bone in several places.
To anyone who found the scene, it would tell a very simple, brutal story.
A cruel master had starved his attack dogs to make them mean, and the dogs had finally gone mad and turned on him.
A hunting accident. Tragic, violent, and entirely common in the harsh North.
Roose Bolton was a calculating man but he wouldn't see an assassination instead he would simply see the inevitable consequence of Ramsay's undisciplined sadism.
"Boss," Duncan's heavy voice broke the silence.
Jon turned, the giant mercenary was standing near the edge of the ridge, looking down at the bodies of the Bastard's men scattered in the snow.
Goran and Hake stood nearby, their weapons lowered as they were staring at Jon, their expressions a mix of profound awe and deep-seated terror.
They had witnessed what he had done with the bastard, and it completely made them shiver in dread. They were no longer following a boy with a heavy coin purse, they were following a man who orchestrated deaths without blinking.
"Strip them," Jon ordered, his voice flat. "Take the coin, the weapons, and anything that isn't stamped with a Bolton sigil. We don't leave good steel to rust."
Goran swallowed hard, nodding quickly. "Aye, Lord Snow. And the bodies?"
"The Weeping Water," Jon said, gesturing toward the dark tree line where the river flowed. "Chop a hole in the shelf-ice and throw them in. The current will drag them under the ice sheet, and the fish will handle the rest. By the time spring thaws the river, there won't be enough left to identify."
The men set to work immediately. There were no complaints about the cold or the heavy labor as they dragged the dead men by their boots, leaving long, dark streaks in the snow.
Jon walked over to the thickest patch of brush, where Duncan had left the surviving girl.
She was huddled on the ground, wrapped in Duncan's massive wool cloak and was shivering violently, her knees pulled to her chest, her bare feet tucked beneath her. When Jon's boots crunched in the snow nearby, she flinched, burying her face in the dirty wool.
Jon knelt down in front of her.
He took a moment to truly look at her. Beneath the dirt, the tear streaks, and the bruises, she was strikingly beautiful.
She had sharp, delicate features, pale skin, and thick auburn hair that spilled out from under the heavy cloak.
She was young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, with the kind of natural beauty that usually attracted the worst kind of attention from men like Ramsay.
"Look at me," Jon said, keeping his voice low and steady.
The girl slowly lifted her head, her eyes were a pale, striking hazel, wide with residual panic.
"They're dead," Jon told her. "The hounds ate the one who brought you here and the rest are going into the river so you are safe, nobody is going to hurt you."
She stared at him, her chest heaving as she tried to process the words. "He.....he said he was going to skin me and said I dropped the Lord's wine, so he was going to peel me."
"He's dogs meat now," Jon said simply. "What is your name?"
"Kyra," she whispered, her teeth chattering.
"Well, Kyra," Jon said, reaching into his pouch and pulled out a piece of hardtack and pressed it into her trembling hands. "You have a choice to make. If I leave you here, you'll freeze to death before nightfall. If you go back to the Dreadfort, Roose Bolton will have you hanged for being the sole survivor of the accident that killed his bastard."
Kyra bit her lip, a fresh tear sliding down her bruised cheek. "I have nowhere to go milord , my family is all at the keep."
"Your family thinks you're dead," Jon corrected her smoothly. "And it needs to stay that way as you're coming with us."
She blinked, confused. "Where?"
"Winterfell," Jon said. He stood up, looking down at her. "You have the look of a proper maid, when you're not covered in mud. My sister, Lady Sansa, is always complaining about her current maids. They are too old and too loud, you'll work in the castle. You'll have warm clothes, a bed, and safety. In return, you keep your mouth shut about what happened in these woods., to everyone, you are a refugee from a burned village down south."
Kyra looked at the dark woods, then at the bodies being dragged toward the river, and finally up at the serious, grey-eyed young man standing over her.
He had saved her life, he had summoned a giant white wolf to rip the throat out of her nightmares.
She pulled the heavy cloak tighter around her shoulders and nodded.
"Yes, m'lord, I'll serve.... I swear it."
"Good," Jon said. "Duncan! Put her on one of the dead men's horses. We ride as soon as the ice is broken."
An hour later, the clearing was quiet again.
The snow was still stained red, but the bodies of the riders were gone.
The heavy hemp rope had been untied, coiled, and packed away, the traps had been hastily filled back in with loose snow and branches.
Jon sat atop his horse, looking down at the mangled remains of Ramsay Snow one last time. Ghost sat quietly by the horses, licking a spot of blood from his white paw. The three mastiffs were still asleep by the oak tree, dead to the world.
"The wind is picking up," Duncan noted, pulling his hood over his head. "It'll snow heavy by nightfall and the tracks will be buried by morning."
"Let it snow," Jon said.
He turned his horse away from the Dreadfort lands and the column fell into line behind him. Goran, Hake, and the others rode in perfect silence, leading a spare horse that carried Kyra, who was bundled so heavily in furs she looked like a small bear.
The ride back was grueling, but the mood had shifted as there was no more nervous banter.
Two days later, the massive grey towers of Winterfell broke through the horizon, a welcome sight against the bleak white landscape.
Jon didn't take the men to the main gates. He led them through Winter Town, navigating the winding, muddy streets until they reached the Old Tannery.
Jon dismounted, handing his reins to Goran as he pushed the heavy wooden doors open.
The fires were roaring. Kegg was hammering a new set of shelves against the far wall, while Tobias was carefully pouring clear liquid from a copper jug into a line of freshly blown glass bottles.
The production line hadn't stopped.
"Boss is back!" Tobias called out, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Jon walked past the drying racks, taking in the sight of his work. He walked over to the main table, where a dozen sealed bottles of Winter's Kiss sat, perfectly clear and catching the firelight.
Beside them lay a stack of cured Wolf's Breath pouches.
He had removed the greatest threat to his future in the North, and his business had grown while he was away.
Jon picked up a bottle, feeling the smooth glass. He looked back at his men, who were filing into the Tannery, seeking the warmth of the fires. Duncan led Kyra inside, the girl looking around the strange factory with wide, exhausted eyes.
"Get some rest all," Jon told his squad, setting the bottle down. " It was a long journey."
Authors Note:-
Well.... I understand some needs smut than story so i will add some smut chapters to the mix.
Truthfully i have been loving making these plot chapters without smut .
Anyway can't forget the foundation.
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