The march toward the Dreadfort began before dawn. The Northern winds whipped through the ranks of Jon's forces, but the men moved in silence, their faces hardened against the cold and the coming storm. It was a long and perilous road to the Dreadfort, and Jon knew that every step brought them closer to danger. But it wasn't fear that settled in his gut—it was anticipation.
His mind was sharp, calculating every risk, every advantage they could take. He couldn't afford any missteps.
"We're close now," Tormund said, pulling up beside him. His red beard was frosted with ice, but the wildling showed no discomfort. "How do you want to play this, Snow? Sneak in like wolves or charge in like bears?"
Jon's eyes scanned the horizon. They were still miles from the Dreadfort, but he could already see the land beginning to change—the trees thinning out, the hills flattening into marshy ground. They were entering Bolton territory.
"No charges," Jon said firmly. "Not yet."
He gestured to a break in the treeline where the land dipped into a narrow valley. "We'll set up camp there tonight. We stay hidden and move under cover of darkness. I want scouts sent ahead, tracking Bolton patrols. We hit them in the night, quietly, and leave no survivors to raise an alarm."
Tormund grinned, showing his crooked teeth. "Quiet raids, huh? Didn't think you had it in you to fight like a wildling."
Jon gave him a faint smile. "You've taught me well."
Tormund laughed, then clapped Jon on the back before walking off to spread the orders. Jon watched him go, feeling the weight of the next steps pressing down on him. This wasn't just a raid—it was a calculated move, a blow to weaken Ramsay's hold on the North. If they could disrupt his supply lines, sow chaos in his forces, it would force the Boltons to stretch themselves thin. Ramsay would be vulnerable.
Jon had spent nights pouring over maps, analyzing everything he knew about the Boltons' forces, their defenses, their weaknesses. The Dreadfort might have been a stronghold, but it wasn't impenetrable. Ramsay's arrogance would be his downfall. He relied on fear, on brute force. Jon would counter with precision.
He glanced at the men preparing to move into formation, each of them hardened by war and loss. The Mormonts, the Umbers, the wildlings—they were all there for different reasons, but they followed him now. They trusted his judgment, his strategy. And he couldn't let them down.
---
As the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness crept over the land, Jon stood at the edge of their makeshift camp, watching the scouts return from their reconnaissance. The campfires were kept low, only faint flickers in the distance to avoid detection. The Dreadfort loomed in the distance, its towers barely visible against the night sky.
One of the scouts, a seasoned wildling named Greyleaf, approached Jon, his breath heavy with the chill of the night.
"Spotted a patrol heading south, near the river," Greyleaf reported, crouching beside Jon. "Small group, six men. Looks like they're making rounds, keeping an eye on the roads."
Jon nodded, absorbing the information. "Did they see you?"
Greyleaf shook his head. "We stayed low. They don't know we're here."
Jon looked over his shoulder at Tormund, who had been listening in. "Take a small team, intercept them. Make it clean. No survivors."
Tormund nodded grimly, his usual humor gone. He understood the gravity of the situation. They couldn't afford any mistakes tonight. With a sharp whistle, he gathered a handful of his best men, including wildlings and Northerners alike, and melted into the shadows.
Jon's attention turned back to the Dreadfort. The plan was already in motion. If they could eliminate the patrols quietly, it would give them the window they needed to strike at the Dreadfort's outlying defenses without raising the alarm. A full assault would be suicide—but precision strikes, carefully planned, would cripple Ramsay's control over the region.
Jon's thoughts raced, considering every angle. The Dreadfort's defenses weren't impregnable, but they were built for sieges. He couldn't win a direct confrontation, not with the forces he had. But Ramsay would be relying on fear, expecting Jon to play by the traditional rules of war. Jon wasn't going to give him that luxury.
The key was stealth. Disrupt the supply lines. Destroy the garrison. And disappear before Ramsay could retaliate.
He thought back to his training at Castle Black. Maester Aemon had taught him that the true strength of a leader wasn't just in how they wielded a sword, but how they wielded their mind. Jon had learned that lesson well, especially after his time as Lord Commander. He had made mistakes before, and some of them had cost him dearly—but he had learned from them.
And tonight, he wouldn't let the Boltons see him coming.
---
Hours passed, and the camp was filled with quiet anticipation. Jon waited in the darkness, his senses attuned to every sound, every movement. The wind rustled through the trees, but otherwise, the night was still. The tension in the air was palpable.
Then, Tormund and his men returned, their presence announced only by the crunch of their boots on the frozen ground.
"It's done," Tormund said, his voice low but satisfied. "No one's left to tell the tale."
Jon gave a short nod. "Good. Now we move."
With practiced silence, Jon's forces moved through the woods, their movements swift and coordinated. They spread out, flanking the Dreadfort from the north and west, careful to stay out of sight of the fortress walls. The night was their cover, and they would use it to their advantage.
Jon's heart raced, but his mind was calm. Every step had been planned, every action calculated. They would hit fast and hard, take what they needed, and vanish before the Boltons could react.
As they approached the outskirts of the Dreadfort, Jon signaled for the group to stop. He crouched beside Tormund, who peered through the darkness at the walls of the fortress.
"The guards are thin," Jon whispered. "Ramsay's overconfident. He doesn't think anyone would dare strike this close."
Tormund grinned, his teeth flashing in the dark. "His mistake."
Jon gestured to the far side of the fortress, where the supply stores were located. "We hit the stores first. Burn their food, destroy their supplies. Then we move to the barracks. We don't need to take the whole Dreadfort—we just need to make them bleed."
Tormund nodded, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "We'll make them bleed alright."
---
The attack went exactly as Jon had planned.
Tormund led the first wave of raiders, slipping into the Dreadfort's outer stores under the cover of darkness. They moved like shadows, cutting down guards before they could raise an alarm. Within minutes, the stores were ablaze, flames licking the night sky as barrels of food and supplies were destroyed.
The chaos spread quickly. The few soldiers garrisoned at the Dreadfort rushed to put out the fires, but they were unprepared for the speed and precision of Jon's forces. While the Boltons scrambled to contain the flames, Jon led a second group toward the barracks.
They moved swiftly, eliminating any resistance they encountered, but they didn't linger. Jon knew the real victory wasn't in holding the Dreadfort—it was in striking fast, causing chaos, and leaving before the Boltons could mount a proper defense.
As the fires raged behind them, Jon's forces melted back into the night, disappearing into the trees as quickly as they had come. The Dreadfort was crippled, its supplies destroyed, its garrison in disarray.
Jon stood at the edge of the forest, watching the flames burn in the distance. The Boltons wouldn't know what hit them. Ramsay would be furious, and more importantly—he would be vulnerable.
Jon turned to Tormund, his face set with grim satisfaction. "This is just the beginning."