The gates of Bear Island closed behind them with a heavy thud. Jon watched as the Mormont soldiers dispersed into the cold, gathering supplies and readying their forces. Lyanna Mormont, small but fierce, had done as much as she could for their cause. Still, Jon couldn't shake the cold pit of doubt settling in his stomach. The forces he had now—Umbers, Mormonts, and wildlings—were loyal but few.
"We have another ally, but not enough to march on Winterfell," Jon said to Tormund as they moved through the snow-laden courtyard.
Tormund scratched at his beard, his eyes flickering toward the Mormont soldiers bustling about. "Aye, these Mormonts are tough folk, but Bolton has an army. And I don't think we've got enough of your Northern lords to outfight him."
Jon knew Tormund was right. Every step south was a step closer to confrontation with Roose Bolton and his son, Ramsay. And the closer they got, the more his doubt grew. He had the will of the free folk, the fierceness of the Umbers, and the loyalty of the Mormonts. But it wasn't enough.
As if sensing Jon's unease, Ghost pressed against his leg, the direwolf's eyes scanning the surroundings warily. Jon reached down, his fingers brushing through Ghost's thick fur. His mind wandered to Winterfell, to the home that was no longer his. His thoughts drifted to Robb, to the Red Wedding. The image of his brother's lifeless body, his mother's despair, haunted him with every breath.
"Jon!"
Lyanna's small voice rang out across the yard, drawing Jon's attention back to the present. The young lady of Bear Island stood at the steps of the hall, flanked by her guards. Her face, though youthful, was hardened by the weight of leadership, and her sharp gaze did not falter as she looked at him.
"We're ready to move south," she said. "But before we do, you need to understand something." She crossed her arms, her chin raised in defiance. "We may be few, but the Mormonts fight for the North. Our loyalty is to the Starks. Don't make me regret following you, Snow. You may be Eddard Stark's son, but you're not the King in the North."
Jon nodded. He understood her hesitation, the doubts she had about him. He was the Stark bastard, and bastards didn't lead armies. But this wasn't about him—this was about the North and reclaiming what had been stolen. He couldn't afford to let his heritage be a barrier.
"I won't lead you to ruin, Lady Mormont," Jon said, his voice low and steady. "We fight for the North. For Winterfell. I'll make sure the Boltons pay for what they've done."
Lyanna stared at him for a long moment, then gave a sharp nod. "See that you do."
As she turned and strode back inside, Jon felt the weight of her words settling on his shoulders. The North was placing its trust in him, but he was far from convinced that he was the leader they needed. He wasn't Robb. He wasn't the King in the North. He was Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, and every step he took felt like a betrayal of the man he once was—a man sworn to the Night's Watch.
Tormund approached again, his face thoughtful. "We march in the morning, but you've got one more problem to deal with. You're not the only one calling banners, Jon. Bolton's sending ravens too."
Jon tensed. "Ravens?"
Tormund nodded, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "I've heard whispers among the wildlings. They've seen Bolton's men, out in the woods, watching the roads. He's got men waiting for you, and if he's sending ravens, then he's looking for allies too. You're not the only one raising an army."
Jon clenched his fists, a surge of frustration coursing through him. Of course Roose Bolton would be watching, anticipating his every move. He had ruled the North with fear and cold calculation. If he was sending ravens, it meant that Jon's march was no longer a secret.
"We need to move faster," Jon said. "We can't give Bolton time to gather more forces. We strike first."
"And how exactly do you plan to do that?" Tormund asked, his tone skeptical. "You've got maybe a few hundred men, and half of 'em are wildlings. Bolton's sitting in Winterfell with a fortress and an army. You can't just walk in and take it."
Jon shook his head, his mind racing with possibilities. "We don't fight him on his terms. We strike where he's weakest."
"And where's that?"
Jon looked south, his eyes narrowing. "We take the Dreadfort."
---
That night, as the camp quieted and the men found rest before the coming march, Jon stood alone on a small rise overlooking the sea. The moon hung low, casting a pale light over the water, and the sound of waves crashing against the shore filled the silence.
He closed his eyes, feeling the cold wind whip through his hair. His thoughts were heavy with doubt, with the weight of the North pressing down on him. How had it come to this? Leading men into battle, making alliances, and trying to reclaim a home that had never truly been his? It wasn't what he had expected when he had taken the black, sworn to the Night's Watch. His duty had been to the Wall, to the realm, but now that seemed so far away.
The North was his home, and Winterfell had been his birthright, even if only in his heart. He couldn't let the Boltons keep it. He couldn't let them keep Robb's legacy in chains.
"Jon."
The voice startled him, pulling him from his thoughts. He turned to see Sansa standing a few feet away, her face illuminated by the moonlight. She had come from the North, from Ramsay's hellish grip, and the sight of her had reignited a fire in him he hadn't known was still there. But even as she stood before him, Jon could see the pain in her eyes, the weight of her own memories pulling at her.
"Sansa," Jon said quietly, moving toward her.
"I couldn't sleep," she admitted, wrapping her fur cloak tighter around her shoulders. "I keep thinking about... Winterfell. About what they've done to it. About what they've done to our family."
Jon's chest tightened at her words. He had thought the same things, over and over again. Winterfell had been the heart of the North, and now it was a place of suffering, twisted by the Boltons' cruelty.
"We'll take it back," Jon said, his voice firm. "We'll make them pay for what they've done."
Sansa's eyes flicked to him, her expression softening. "I know we will. But it won't bring Robb back. It won't bring any of them back."
Jon swallowed hard, the truth of her words cutting deep. Nothing he did would change the past. Nothing would bring back the brother he had lost, or the family that had been torn apart. But that didn't mean he could stand by and do nothing.
"I've never been a leader, Sansa," Jon admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Robb was the leader. He was the King in the North. But now it's all fallen to me, and I don't know if I'm enough."
Sansa stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. "You are enough, Jon. You've done more than you know. The wildlings follow you, the Northmen trust you, and I..." Her voice faltered for a moment before she continued. "I trust you."
Jon looked down at her, the weight of her trust settling over him. He had always fought for his family, but now it was different. Now, he had Sansa beside him, and her faith in him meant more than anything.
"I won't fail," Jon said quietly. "Not again."
Sansa's grip on his arm tightened. "We'll win this war, Jon. We have to. For all of them."
Jon nodded, his resolve hardening. Together, they would take back the North. Together, they would end the Boltons' reign of terror. And together, they would reclaim what was rightfully theirs.
---
The next morning, Jon and his forces marched south, their path set toward the Dreadfort. The Umbers, the Mormonts, and the wildlings moved as one, their banners flying in the cold wind. The Boltons would not expect this. They would not see it coming.
And when the time came, Jon would face them. Not as a bastard. Not as the son of Eddard Stark's dishonor.
But as the North's last hope.