The camp was quiet, the light of dawn barely breaking over the horizon as Jon stood in his tent, staring down at the map of the North laid out before him. His mind raced, every corner of the map marked with his thoughts, plans, and fears. Winterfell was in the center, the heart of the North, and surrounding it were the symbols of the houses he needed to win over or crush to take back what was theirs.
Jon had never seen himself as a strategist like Robb or his father, but over time, especially at Castle Black, he had learned to think like one. The Night's Watch had no room for carelessness. Every man counted. Every battle had to be fought with calculation. And now, with only a small band of wildlings, Umbers, and Mormonts at his side, Jon knew he couldn't afford a single mistake.
He looked at the Mormont banners, their bear sigil waving faintly in the wind outside the tent. They were loyal, strong, and fierce, but small in number. The Umbers brought more, but still, they weren't enough to storm Winterfell.
He tapped the table, frowning. Ramsay Bolton wouldn't be expecting them to hit the Dreadfort, but the question gnawed at him—what would be waiting for them there?
"Jon," Sansa's voice broke his concentration.
He looked up, seeing his sister enter the tent. She had barely rested since they left Bear Island, but there was a strength in her now that Jon hadn't seen before. Ramsay's cruelty had hardened her, and though Jon worried for her, he also knew she was an invaluable ally.
"You're up early," she said, looking at the map spread across the table. "Planning?"
Jon nodded. "Trying to think of what's next. We can't attack Winterfell directly, not yet. Roose Bolton's strong, and Ramsay is unpredictable. He'll have traps laid for us."
Sansa moved closer, her eyes narrowing as she looked over the map. "What are you thinking?"
Jon drew his finger across the map to the east, to the Dreadfort. "If we strike the Dreadfort, we can cut off Ramsay's seat of power. It's where he grew up, where the Boltons' hold over the north started. It's a stronghold, yes, but with their forces spread thin, they won't expect us to take it. And if we do, it sends a message."
Sansa studied the map, her expression unreadable. "You think the Dreadfort will fall that easily?"
"No," Jon admitted, his brow furrowing. "But we don't need to hold it. If we can raid it, cripple Ramsay's supply lines, and free any northern prisoners there, we could weaken him. I'm thinking like a ranger now. Hit fast, cause damage, and disappear. Make him feel our presence. Make him feel hunted."
Sansa frowned, but there was a glimmer of understanding in her eyes. "That sounds...dangerous."
"It is," Jon agreed, "but it's what we have. We can't afford to get drawn into a siege with our numbers. We have to use the element of surprise. And we can rally more men to our cause along the way—Manderly, maybe the Glovers. Once they see the Boltons' vulnerability, they might join us."
Sansa folded her arms across her chest, her mind working. "You're thinking like a Stark."
Jon blinked, unsure of how to respond.
"You've learned to play their game," she said, her voice quieter now. "That's what Father would have done—cut the head off the snake, strike where they least expect it. He didn't charge into battle without understanding the full picture. He would have understood that this is more than just winning battles. It's about strategy. You have that now."
Her words gave Jon pause. He hadn't thought of it that way. The burden of command weighed heavily on him, but Sansa was right. The boy who had gone to the Wall was gone, replaced by someone who had learned from watching others—from the wisdom of men like Jeor Mormont and Maester Aemon. This war wasn't just about swinging swords; it was about outmaneuvering the Boltons. That's where his strength had to lie.
"I learned from Father," Jon said finally. "But I've also learned from others. The wildlings, the Watch...we can't win if we don't fight smart."
Sansa stepped closer, her eyes softening. "Then we do this together. We'll outthink them."
Jon gave her a tight nod. "Together."
---
Later that day, Jon gathered his captains in a large tent, the map laid out on the table before them. Tormund stood to Jon's right, his face serious but thoughtful. Smalljon Umber leaned against a post, arms crossed, his brow furrowed as he listened.
Jon swept his gaze over the map. "We're moving east, toward the Dreadfort."
There was a low murmur from the gathered men, but no outright protest. Smalljon shifted, his expression skeptical. "The Dreadfort's a fortress, Snow. You really think we can take it?"
Jon shook his head. "We're not going to take it. We're going to raid it. Cause as much damage as we can, take whatever supplies we can find, and disappear before they can muster a full defense. The Boltons' strength lies in their supply lines. If we cut those, they'll be forced to stretch themselves thin, and that's when we strike."
Tormund grunted approvingly. "Like a raid north of the Wall. Smart. We hit hard, fast, and leave 'em bleeding."
Smalljon was less convinced. "And if we get trapped there? What then?"
Jon met Smalljon's gaze, his voice steady. "We won't. We've got scouts, and we move quickly. The Dreadfort isn't expecting a full-scale attack, and we won't give them time to prepare for one."
Smalljon mulled over Jon's words, but eventually gave a curt nod. "Alright. But I'll be damned if I die at the Dreadfort for nothing."
Jon gave him a nod of respect, understanding the risk they all faced. "We won't die there. But we will make Ramsay Bolton bleed."
---
As night fell, Jon found himself walking the perimeter of the camp, checking on the men and making sure all was ready for the march. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts—plans, contingencies, and the endless what-ifs that plagued any leader before a battle.
But amidst all that, one thought kept resurfacing: what would his father do?
Ned Stark had been a man of honor, but honor had not saved him. Jon knew the lessons of honor, but he had learned the hard way that sometimes, honor could be a weakness. Ramsay Bolton was not a man who would play by any rules. He would use fear, lies, and cruelty to maintain his grip on the North.
Jon couldn't afford to fight fair.
He stopped by the edge of the woods, letting the cold wind sweep over him. His hand rested on the hilt of Longclaw, the sword a reassuring weight at his side. He felt the ghosts of his past—the brothers he'd lost, Robb's memory, the father he barely remembered—guiding him forward. Their legacies rested on his shoulders now, but Jon knew this war wasn't just about revenge.
It was about survival. For the North. For his family. For Sansa.
"We do this the hard way," Jon muttered to himself, his resolve hardening. "But we do it smart."
And with that thought, he turned back toward the camp, his mind clear and focused. Tomorrow, they would march for the Dreadfort.
And Ramsay Bolton would learn what it meant to be hunted.