Chapter 4

*The Riverlands, Whispering Wood. Year 299 A.C.*

War was never a pretty sight, no matter the reasons behind it. So much bloodshed and death always brought more chaos into the equation.

But Jon was no stranger to bloodshed. He had lost count of how many Lannister soldiers had died by his sword. An enemy soldier had attempted to impale him with his sword, but instead lost his arm in the attempt, and a moment later, before he could even comprehend the loss of his arm, Jon cleanly decapitated him.

A white blur moved across the battlefield, as silent as it was, Ghost had no mercy, and the body count in the direwolf's name kept rising. Grey Wind, his brother's wolf, was not far behind. Though smaller compared to Ghost, he was also a killing machine when he started his hunt.

Jon took a moment, removed his helmet, and surveyed the scene briefly. He was covered in the blood of his enemies, his black armor with the white wolf stamped on his chest painted crimson, his sword, Longclaw, also stained with blood.

Then he saw him, not far from where he stood, his brother Robb was fighting a Lannister knight—and not just any knight. This one had a white cloak draped over his shoulders. It was the Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister.

It wasn't that Jon doubted his brother's abilities, but he found himself moving quickly across the battlefield, killing anyone who stood in his way.

But his intervention was unnecessary. A misstep by the Kingslayer and the timely arrival of Grey Wind sealed the fate of Tywin's son.

The day was theirs; they had won the battle.

The men of the North cheered for Robb, calling him the Young Wolf, their shouts deafening.

However, many eyes turned to Jon Snow, standing there, covered in blood, with the white direwolf at his side, its fur stained crimson, as they watched his brother being acclaimed by his men.

Those who saw him fight witnessed the brutality and massacre left in his wake. By the end of the day, estimates of deaths caused by a single man surpassed 400.

Word spread quickly, not only among the Northerners but also in the Riverlands and beyond.

The White Wolf, they whispered. Jon paid them no mind. After the battle, which they named the Battle of the Whispering Wood.

But there was no rest. Robb quickly organized his troops and executed a swift attack on the remaining Lannister forces besieging Riverrun. With their leader captured, they were quickly overwhelmed, and the seat of House Tully once again belonged to its rightful owners.

As expected, the men celebrated the victory.

In the midst of the celebration, Jon found himself in a solitary corner, determined not to draw attention, though that proved to be quite difficult.

"...Ned's boy looked like a damned demon!" bellowed the Greatjon. "The bloody bastard slaughtered so many men I lost count. I swear I've never seen anything like it. And I'm telling you, I see now that the rumors about Jon Snow are not just tales. A toast to the White Wolf!"

Jon drank heavily that night, yet he wasn't even half as drunk as most of the Northerners and Riverlanders. Unable to sleep, he found himself hacking away at a training dummy with his sword.

"He's already dead," a male voice spoke from the shadows.

Jon stopped his swings. The dark eyes of the Stark bastard met those of Domeric Bolton. It was the first time they had spoken directly, though Jon found some traits of the bastard brother of the boy he had killed some time ago.

He looked at him in silence, unsure of what to say and not particularly caring.

"I saw you fight. Well, many saw how you did. I wonder where you learned to fight like that. With the Mormonts or the Reeds?"

Jon sheathed his sword, frowning as he replied.

"Ser Rodrick Cassel was the first to teach me the art of the sword. My time at the Neck taught me cunning in battle, and the time I spent with the Mormonts taught me ferocity. The rest came naturally."

With that said, he began walking back to his room.

"Did you kill my brother with that same ferocity?"

Jon stopped dead in his tracks.

"Ramsay Snow. There's little left of him, but he was executed alongside his men by you," Domeric's voice was cold.

Without turning to face the Bolton heir, Jon replied flatly.

"If it's any consolation, it was a clean cut." He started walking again. "Much more mercy than that rabid beast deserved. Sleep well, Lord Bolton."

"I know Ramsay's sins, yet he was still a son of House Bolton and my brother. Don't forget that, Lord Snow."

Jon cracked a smile, a cruel one, full of bloodlust.

"I won't forget." And with that, he disappeared into the castle corridors.

---

For a moment, he had peace, though it was fleeting. Amidst a war, he would take any moment of peace he could find.

The Godswood in Riverrun was a tranquil place, and Jon found himself sharpening his sword in the calm of the woods.

He knew all too well that he wasn't welcome in the castle. He didn't miss the scornful looks from Lady Stark or her brother, nor those from the Blackfish. His very existence was an affront to their house. But Jon cared little; let them live with their bitterness, it wouldn't erase his existence.

"I knew I'd find you here," Robb's voice pulled him from his thoughts. His brother approached with a smile.

"Lord Stark," Jon greeted him.

Robb made a face, and Jon smiled.

"I've always known I'd bear that title one day, but today more than ever, I wish I didn't," Robb said, sitting beside him. "I hope that after all this, Father will hold this title for many more years. I honestly don't know how he bore the weight of lordship on his shoulders."

"Time and experience make a good lord, not the other way around."

Robb laughed.

"You sound like Father," he said. Jon smiled. Robb's expression darkened. "I miss him."

"So do I," Jon admitted. There was a moment of silence before Jon spoke again. "We'll get him back, and the girls too."

Another moment of silence, this time broken by Robb.

"My uncle Edmure is thinking of holding a tournament in honor of his father, my grandfather."

Jon frowned.

"Yes, I know, it's not the best time. But I think it will help raise the morale of the men in these lands."

Jon nodded slowly.

"While he does that, I'll be leaving the castle. I plan to hunt down Gregor Clegane."

Robb looked at him with his mouth open, completely shocked. At that moment, a raven cawed and perched on Jon's shoulder.

"What…? By the Gods! Are you serious!?" Robb exclaimed incredulously. "Have you gone mad? If you think I'll let you…"

"I've already decided," Jon cut him off bluntly. "Nothing will change my mind."

"Death, death, death!"

A shiver ran down Robb's spine. He opened his mouth to argue, but at that moment, Catelyn Stark appeared on the scene.

Immediately Jon knew something was wrong. His brother's mother had red eyes from crying, and she held a letter in her hands.

Dark wings, dark words.

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, had been executed.