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***
The letter bearing the Boltons' seal was delivered to Castle Black just before they left, when all preparations were complete and Jon and Sansa, accompanied by five brothers of the Watch, were about to set out to negotiate with the Karstarks. The warrior who came under the white flag handed the sealed scroll to Podrick Payne, who in turn handed it to Jon. Breaking the seal, Snow began to read the letter while the messenger scrutinised Sansa with oily eyes. The look made the girl cringe, and the warrior smiled cheekily.
- Wipe that smile off your face,' Jon ordered without taking his eyes off the letter, 'and you can get the hell out of here. Your mission is accomplished.
- I have a verbal message to deliver to Lady Bolton,' the messenger said, emphasising Sansa's name but not smiling.
- You'll be fine,' Snow looked up as he finished reading. - Get out of here, or you'll regret what you said. I won't say it again.
- I will, however,' the warrior replied and turned to Sansa. - Lord Bolton told me to tell you to go back now, go back nicely, and then I will punish you lightly. Disobey, and your fate will not be envied by all the hangmen and whores of Westeros.'
Anger rose in the girl's soul, but no sooner had she opened her mouth than her brother's voice overtook her:
- Cut off his tongue.
The Bolton soldier was stunned by this statement, and three sentries were already on their way to him. When he realised that he was not to be trifled with, he shouted:
- I am a messenger under the white flag! You wouldn't dare!
- Yes, I can,' John assured him. - You lost your status the moment you didn't heed my words. You were clearly told you would regret it. I'm only keeping my word.
The soldier tried to draw his sword, but Tormund, standing nearby, struck him on the back of the head with the hilt of his axe, and the sentries picked him up and dragged him out of sight. Sansa stared at her brother - she hadn't expected him to do such a harsh thing. At the same time, her amazement was matched by a fierce joy that her protector was not wasting words.
Meanwhile, John unfolded the letter again and reread it:
- Ah, Ramsay, Ramsay... Thank you so much, you have no idea how much you've helped me. Sansa, are you sure he's our enemy and not our friend? I wish more of them were.
At that moment, everyone was taken aback. Ser Davos, Brienne and Podrick, Tormund and Sansa all looked at Snow like he was crazy. The very object of their attention was smiling contentedly, as if he had been brought the most joyous news possible.
- Excuse me,' the Onion Knight was the first to come to his senses, 'but what did he write to you?
Smiling again, John began to read the letter aloud:
'To the traitor and bastard Jon Snow.
You let thousands of wildlings past the wall.
You betrayed your people.
You betrayed the North.
Winterfell is mine, you bastard,
You'll see for yourself.
Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon.
His direwolf hide is on my floor,
You'll see.
I want my wife back. Send her to me, you bastard,
and I won't bother you or your wildling friends.
You keep her hidden and I'll come North and I'll kill
every wildling man, woman and child
under your protection.
I will skin them alive.
And you will see
as my warriors take turns
Rape your sister.
You will see,
As my dogs devour
Your wild brother.
Then I'll cut your eyes out of your sockets,
And the dogs will do the rest.
You'll see.
'Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Keeper of the North.
- What good is that? - Tormund didn't understand, but Lady Brienne and Ser Davos, by the look on their faces, realised something. Sansa soon realised it too.
- Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell,' she repeated. - So Ruse Bolton is dead. Ramsay must have killed him himself.
- So what of it? - Tormund furrowed his brow. - One less bastard, but that doesn't make us feel any better.
- Wrong, my wild friend,' Jon said, then turned to his sister. - Sansa, did you say Roose Bolton is married?
- Yes, to Walda Frey,' Sansa confirmed. - She was pregnant when I ran away. The Maester said it was going to be a boy.
Jon waved his brush several times, as if asking her to continue. Thoughts raced through the girl's mind as she recalled everything she knew about Ramsay. There was only one conclusion to be drawn:
- She's dead,' Sansa's eyes widened at the thought. - Ramsay must have killed her; he didn't want rivals, especially not legitimate heirs. What's more, knowing the bastard firsthand, I think he killed Walda in the most brutal way possible.
- Which proves that Ramsay is a sick bastard,' said Tormund. - What's it to us?
- When Father told us about the Lords of the North, he always singled out Roose Bolton,' Jon explained to the wildling. - Father told us that the Lord of Dreadfort was a very dangerous man, feared but respected at the same time. Sansa, how did the Bolton men feel about Ramsay?
- They feared him,' she said confidently, and after a moment she added, 'and despised him. They didn't show it openly, but I saw the looks behind Ramsay's back.
- Now, tell me, who would fight for a man who didn't spare his own father? - John asked. - If he doesn't care about his own blood, what does he think the rest of us are?
- Horse shit,' Tormund smirked.
- You think his soldiers will desert,' Lady Brienne said. - Well, they might.
- What's more,' Jon said, 'I know for a fact that many lords have refused to recognise the Boltons as their suzerains, just as they refused to recognise Stannis Baratheon when he came here. They recognise only the Starks. By killing his father, Ramsay played into our hands, giving the other lords an excuse to join us. Yes, they'll be proud lords, stubborn and hard-headed in the negotiations, but I'm pretty sure they just need a reason to unite and kill a monster who's maddened by his own insolence. Ramsay is finished. By killing Roose Bolton, he's signed his own death warrant.
- Yes, but he has Rickon,' Sansa said. - I'm sure Ramsay isn't lying, and he can use our brother against us.
- The only way Ramsay can use Rickon is as a provocation,' Jon countered. - We know it, and Ramsay knows it, so he won't use Rickon as a hostage. He doesn't want Eddard Stark's true heir alive, so you and I will have to accept the fact that our brother is likely to die. Ramsay won't let him go alive.
Sansa threw her head back and covered her eyes with her palms, and in a moment she was in her brother's arms. His arms seemed to shield her from the threats of the outside world, his quiet voice whispering:
- There is no such thing as a war without loss, Sansa. There are always sacrifices to be made.
- Hasn't our family made too many sacrifices already? - She asked. - My father was executed before my eyes. Mama and Robb murdered, Arya and Bran gone, and now Rickon in the hands of that monster. When will it all end, Jon?
The young man was silent. He couldn't promise his sister that it would be over soon, for it was only just beginning. The Lannisters, the Boltons, the Freys, the Greyjoys, they all paled in comparison to the monster beyond the Wall. This monster could not be negotiated with, could not be frightened, and could not be stopped except by killing. The Night King had its own logic, alien to all living things. He was a terrible enemy, against whom all others seemed pale and predictable.
And he was coming for all of Westeros.
- I will do everything in my power to make our enemies pay,' Jon said quietly. - I cannot promise you that I will save Rickon, but I can promise you that Ramsay Bolton will be held to account. It won't be long before he's skinned.
***
The journey to Carhold took several days of steady snow. Winter was coming, and soon it would be heading south, taking the lives of those who could not feed themselves or keep warm. Already Jon could see how insecure Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne felt, even Ser Davos, who had survived several winters, was grunting unhappily as he looked up at the grey sky. Even Sansa, who had spent most of her life in the North, shivered under her warm cloak.
Jon, on the other hand, felt quite comfortable. Life in the North, the long journey beyond the Wall, and the fact that for Dovakin the eternal winter was a commonplace. He was not frightened by the cold, nor was he intimidated by the cold winds. He had long ago got used to the way his skin burned in the cold, how his feet fell into the snow up to his knees, or even higher. He was used to snowstorms that made it impossible to see five steps ahead, and so he could naturally bump his outstretched hand against an ice troll, who was not happy to meet him. Or you could accidentally stumble upon a camp of giants and, if they were in a good mood, warm yourself by their big fire. But, of course, this could not be compared to a full holiday in a tavern, where you could stretch your legs to the hearth and drink the best honey from the Black Heather meadery.
Along the way, the one whom those around them called Jon Snow felt that the merging of the two personalities was almost complete. Their memories had become more accessible, and thus his head almost ceased to ache from the constant tension. He felt that the Nord's innate resistance to cold was allowing him to pay less and less attention to the frost. The fire-blazing Words of Power were falling into place, forming the Dragon Shouts, and so his Voice would soon be in full force.
And he already knew what he would do when the hour of battle came. His enemies would be in for a very, very unpleasant surprise. He would deal with his enemies in the North, and then find a way to finish off the monster beyond the Wall. He must find it. And then he'll head south. He'd seen enough of Skyrim's civil war when brother went after brother, and he knew who to blame. Now history is repeating itself here, and he knows the culprit as well. That time he stopped a fratricidal war. This time he will punish those responsible when the first Nordic Empire marches ironclad through the lands of the South.
On the way, with Carhold a day's journey away and the troop stopping to rest for the evening, Jon rose and moved away from the camp to take a piss, leaving Ghost to guard Sansa. He didn't want to have to defecate next to his sister. Having done his business, Snow was about to return to the camp when his mind flashed as if struck by lightning. He dropped to his knees and clutched his head with his palms, as if to keep it from splitting apart. His eyes blurred, and on the inside of his skull someone was wielding a knife, carving words into the bone.
John's heart stopped for a moment, and when it started again, it rumbled in his ears like a sledgehammer. Removing his hands from his head, Snow rose from his knees and looked around. The world around him played in all its colours, the snow sparkled with unearthly fire, and the cold retreated as if admitting defeat. John examined his hands as if seeing them for the first time, then drew his sword from its sheath. After performing a few bindings, he made sure his hands remembered, returning the Long Claw to its scabbard. But something was missing. He was used to fighting with something more than a sword. Weathered lips stretched in a grin as his memory finally became whole and memories took their place.
Jon Snow looked up at the small fir tree covered in snow and his mouth opened on its own, finally allowing Crik his freedom:
- FUS!
Watching the snow fly off the Christmas tree under a powerful gust of force, Jon smiled.
The merger was complete.