ASOIAF/GOT : Grey Dragon

Jon Snow POV

The ride south was long and dull, with little to break the monotony save for the occasional hunt or Ghost's quiet, watchful presence. I'd gone to the Freefolk camp for their support, and, as expected, the final decision came down to Wun Wun. His reply? A simple, rumbling "Snow." That was all it needed and with that, they started to prepare when they eventually needed to march toward the south.

I asked Tormund if he wanted to accompany me and he asked the purpose of our journey which I replied 'to save my little brother. That is all Tormund needed to hear before he agreed to join me in saving Rickon from the Boltons. The man didn't even hesitate—it was like the idea of sticking it to Ramsay Bolton was its own reward. Maybe he thought it might win him a favorable opinion of Brienne. 

On the ride, I told Tormund about my new ability to warg. His reaction was pure Tormund: a raised brow, a scoff, and a grin. "Aye, I figured you'd be a warg. Surprised you weren't already. You look the type." I deadpanned what does he mean Jon looks the type.

We reached the Crofter's Village after nearly two weeks. And gods, it had been a miserable journey. Endless hours on horseback, every muscle in my body aching, while the monotony sapped what little patience I had left. How I wished for a dragon—something that could have cut the journey to a single day instead of dragging it out. But that's a dream for later. First, I'll take back Winterfell, crush the Boltons, and restore House Stark. Then, I'll go find Daenerys and her dragons. If one of them accepts me as a rider… well, the game will truly change.

Tormund broke the silence as we neared the village, his sharp eyes scanning the huts and tower. "Is this the place from which we'll be raiding Bolton supplies?"

I nodded toward the frozen lakes beyond the village. "It's the perfect spot from where we could 'sabotage' their supplies and kill their patrols. The lakes will keep us fed while we do what we came here to do." 

Tormund gave a grunt of approval, tying his horse to a tree near the watchtower. "Not like we'd go hungry anyway, with Ghost and Luna hunting for us." He flashed a sly grin at Ghost, the kind that made it clear he was tempted to wrestle the dire wolf just for the fun of it.

Ghost, ever the stoic, growled low and padded to my side. His red eyes glinted as if warning Tormund to keep his distance. Meanwhile, Luna swooped down from the sky, landing on the watchtower window like a queen surveying her domain.

She was a northern eagle I'd… tamed, though "tamed" might be too kind a word. It wasn't bonding, not in the way you'd expect. I'd warged into her, forcing her to obey me, and she'd fought like hell against it. But persistence won out. Aether had told me Jon's Stark blood made him naturally gifted at skinchanging, even if he'd been too much of a coward to embrace it. Figures. Jon was too busy drowning in Ned Stark's lessons about honor and duty to realize the strength he carried in his blood.

That was Jon Snow's mistake, not mine. Honor is a nice enough concept, but it's no good when your enemies are using it to play you like a fool. I wasn't about to make the same mistake.

"Tormund," I said, turning to him. "We start tomorrow. Raiding supplies, ambushing patrols. Tonight, I want everyone rested. We've pushed hard since the Wall, and I need you sharp. No sloppy mistakes—we'll need stealth, precision, and a bit of luck if we're going to outmatch the Boltons."

Tormund nodded, serious now. His men hadn't complained once, despite the grueling ride, but I could see the wear in their eyes. They deserved a night to recover.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, letting my mind slip into Luna's. Her sharp vision flooded my senses, and I soared above the village, scanning the landscape for anything useful. The rush of power was intoxicating. If I could command her will, what other creatures might I control? That thought stayed with me as I soared, preparing for the chaos to come.

****_****

The chill of the northern night was sharp, biting through even the thickest of furs I have worn. Snow crunched beneath my boots as I crouched in the shadows of a frozen tree line, waiting. The small trail leading from Last Hearth was barely wide enough for a wagon, the perfect place for an ambush. After waking from a long sleep, I had warged into Luna, sending her soaring high over Winterfell and beyond. It didn't take long for her sharp eyes to spot what we needed—a wagon heading south from Last Hearth, laden with supplies for Winterfell. Only one wagon. A curious discovery, given how little it could carry for an army. Still, whatever it held would be more useful to us than the Boltons.

Tormund knelt beside me, his breath a visible plume in the cold air. His axe rested on his shoulder, and despite the quiet, he looked eager, like he was loving what we were currently about to do. Behind us, his men were scattered among the trees—ten in all. Each had a weapon ready: axes, spears, and bows made for silent kills. But they lack armor which I think some of them will get after this ordeal.

"How much longer do we wait, Snow?" Tormund whispered his grin a flash of white in the dark.

"Patience," I muttered. My eyes scanned the distant trail. "They'll be here." Just as I was thinking to warg into Luna who is circling above to see how much longer it would take Ghost licked my hand to get my attention.

Ghost shifted beside me, his white fur blending perfectly with the snow. His ears were pricked, and his nose twitched as he caught the scent of something. That was the only sign I needed. I laid a hand on Tormund's arm.

"Get ready. They're close."

Tormund signaled to his men with a wave of his hand, and they melted into the trees, their movements practiced and quiet. I stayed where I was, Ghost crouched low at my side, both of us watching as the faint sound of creaking wood and trudging hooves grew louder.

The wagon came into view first, its wheels groaning under the weight of the supplies. Two men rode on the wagon, wrapped in thick cloaks, while another four rode alongside on horseback, their hands on the hilts of their swords. Their eyes scanned the treeline, but they weren't expecting trouble here. Why would they? This close to Winterfell, in Bolton territory, they thought themselves untouchable. The fools.

Tormund's men struck first. An arrow whistled through the air, finding its mark in one of the riders. He fell from his horse with a dull thud, his cry lost in the chaos that followed. Ghost surged forward, leaping at one of the remaining riders. His teeth sank into the man's throat before he could even draw his sword, and the horse bolted, dragging the corpse to the ground.

The wagon driver shouted, pulling hard on the reins, but Tormund was already there, his axe cleaving through the wooden yoke and sending the horses into a panicked run. The wagon lurched to a halt, and the two men atop it scrambled for weapons.

I moved in then, Longclaw glinting as I brought one of them down. The other man turned to confront me, but Ghost was quicker, dragging him from the wagon and finishing him off before he could call for help. I don't know why Ghost wasn't there during the Battle of the Bastards, but I don't intend to send him away anytime soon, especially given how effectively he can take down a man.

The remaining two riders were outnumbered and outmatched. Tormund laughed as he drove his axe into one of them, the sound echoing in the cold night. The last man tried to run, but one of Tormund's men brought him down with an arrow to the back.

It was over in moments. The supplies were ours.

Tormund wiped his axe clean on the cloak of one of the fallen men, grinning as he turned to me. "Not bad, Snow. You're getting the hang of this. Another raid or two, and you'll be more wildling than a southern wolf."

I ignored him, my focus on the wagon. Breaking open one of the crates, I found salted meat, grain, and barrels of ale—enough to keep us going for weeks.

"Load it up," I said, turning to Tormund's men. "Get it back to the village before someone comes looking for them."

Tormund clapped me on the shoulder, his grin never fading. "Aye. But next time, save me one of the riders. I'm starting to think Ghost has all the fun."

Ghost padded back to my side, his muzzle red with blood. He looked up at me, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight, and I scratched behind his ears.

"Good boy," I said quietly, and together we melted back into the shadows.

Tonight was just the beginning. The Boltons would know we were coming, but by the time they did, it would already be too late.