The White Wolf and the Lords of the North

The mist of memory lifted, revealing a scene shrouded in the shadows of the Old Gods of Winterfell. Jon, then only nine years old, was kneeling before the old weirwood, the ancient tree whose roots seemed to intertwine with the very essence of the North. Its blood-red leaves swayed gently in the wind, and the carved eyes on the trunk exuded na ancient, watchful presence.

Jon was lost in his thoughts, whispering silent prayers to the Old Gods. He always felt a deep connection with them, a bond that none of the other Starks seemed to fully understand. The loneliness that sometimes plagued him felt less intense there, under the watchful gaze of the Old Gods. But that day, something was different. A new presence, a sense of impending completeness enveloped him.

As Jon concentrated on his prayers, he barely noticed the stealthy movement in the shadows. A snow-white figure approached silently, its steps soft and almost imperceptible on the grass. The ruby-red eyes shone with na ancient and mysterious wisdom, fixing on the young Stark.

Jon slowly opened his eyes, and his heart nearly stopped at the sight of the giant wolf sitting calmly beside him. He gave a small start but quickly regained his composure, feeling a strange sense of familiarity and comfort. The wolf simply observed him, its eyes penetrating and gentle.

After a few moments, Jon let out a small, sideways smile, feeling na instant and deep connection with the wolf. He extended his hand slowly, hesitantly, but the wolf did not recoil. When his fingers touched the soft, white fur, Jon felt a comforting warmth radiate through him.

"I've often felt incomplete, like something was missing," Jon murmured, more to himself than to the wolf. "Now, I understand."

He looked directly into the wolf's eyes, which shone intensely under the soft evening light. "You will be called Ghost," he said, his voice firm and full of conviction.

Ghost seemed to understand, tilting his head slightly as if accepting the name and the new bond they shared. From that moment on, Jon never felt alone again. Ghost became na extension of his very soul, a constant presence that would guide and protect him in the times to come.

The flashback dissipated like mist in the sun, bringing Jon back to the present in the courtyard of Castle Black, where he was preparing to lead men on a dangerous and crucial mission. With Ghost by his side, Jon knew he could face any challenge that awaited him beyond the Wall.

Ghost's existence was known to a few people, such as his family and the men who arrived with him at Castle Black, as well as the Lord Commander. Suddenly, Jon's eyes turned to one side.

Lord Bolton stared at Jon for a while after the Stark talked about attacking the wildling camps. He expected one of the older men in the room to be the one to speak and take command instead of a boy without hair on his balls.

The current Lord Bolton, Domeric, unlike Roose Bolton, was a grumpy and proud man. The last time Jon Stark was at his castle, he offered only a few men because other houses had done the same before him.

Lord Domeric Bolton's expression changed, his eyebrows furrowing in disgust. "And who do you think you are to give orders, boy?" he retorted, his tone full of disdain.

Alaric Umber grew serious as he quickly rose from his seat; his large and fierce body was enough to intimidate lesser men, and Lord Bolton was a lesser man.

Alys Mormont had been waiting for this confrontation for some time; indeed, she hoped. The grievances between the Boltons and the Starks went back thousands of years. Seeing Stark and Bolton fight would have been great.

Bernnard Stark glanced sideways before speaking, "Careful, Bolton, that's my nephew and your future lord. The next words you say may be your last." He spoke with a level of anger that seemed almost cold. Something Jon never thought he would see, considering his uncle and Rickon's brother was known for being a more controlled man than his father.

Bolton's face turned red with anger at the Stark's mockery. "You're not even a lord, dog. Watch how you speak to me." He spat, his voice dripping with venom.

Bernard Stark's eyes narrowed, and his temper flared in response. Jon knew his uncle was na ambitious man who wished to be Lord Stark.

"I will tear out your tongue." He retorted, his words sharp with disdain.

Lord Bolton's face contorted with fury at Stark's words. "You insolent cur! You dare speak to me like that?" he growled, his voice rising in indignation.

The room erupted in murmurs and gasps at the escalating exchange, the tension crackling like lightning. Jon remained silent, now seated, his two hands clasped in front of his face. He had a cold and distant expression, seeming to have deep thoughts.

But before the situation could worsen, Jon finally stood up abruptly, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Enough!" he commanded, his tone firm and authoritative. "This argument serves no purpose. We are here to fight a fucking war! Not against each other!" Jon turned to Lord Bolton. "What do you propose then, my lord?" he arched na eyebrow.

The tension in the war room was palpable as Jon's question hung in the air, his unyielding gaze waiting for Lord Bolton's response. Lord Bolton's expression darkened, his jaw clenched in defiance as he stared back at the young prince. He didn't want to fight for leadership in that damn war, but he also didn't want to follow orders from a child. If it were the legitimate Lord of Winterfell, reluctantly, he would follow, but Rickon Stark was busy seeking more help from the south.

"I will not answer to a child," Lord Bolton retorted brusquely, his voice full of disdain. "If the rest of you are content to follow a baby's whims, then I'll take command and lead the attack myself."

Alaric Umber clenched his fists at his sides, his temper flaring at Lord Bolton's insolence. And not only he, but the other houses loyal to the Starks were also displeased with the Lord of the Dreadfort. Jon remained composed, his features stoic as he addressed the challenging Lord, a Stark of Winterfell.

"House Stark will lead the attack against the wildlings," Jon declared, his voice firm and unyielding. "And if you and your men refuse to follow a child's orders, then you will answer to me."

Beside Jon, the Lord Commander spoke for the first time, his voice carrying weight in the room. "Jon Stark has proven his worth since he arrived at Castle Black, he has helped with what he could while waiting for all of you. Furthermore, his ideas have merits, and we haven't suffered as many losses since we followed his instructions." Brandon interrupted, his tone firm and authoritative. "It would be wise to heed his counsel."

Bernard Stark recognized that tone of voice. Brandon Stark wasn't praising a distant relative, no. Quite the opposite. He was merely stating a fact to ensure the northern lords didn't fight over something pointless.

But Lord Bolton remained obstinate, his pride refusing to yield to reason. "My men will not take orders from a child," he stubbornly insisted, his voice dripping with disdain.

The room fell silent again, the weight of Lord Bolton's words hanging in the air like a heavy shroud. Jon's demeanor remained unflinching, his expression a mask of cold resolution as he fixed Lord Bolton with a steely gaze. The Lord of the Dreadfort's words dripped with disdain as he defiantly declared he would not bow to a child's authority, his pride refusing to bend to reason.

"If you expect me to follow a mere boy's orders in this war," Lord Bolton finally spat, his voice laden with disdain, "then I'll march my men back to my lands where we belong."

Alaric Umber finally spoke, interrupting with a sharp retort, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Oh yes, the men of the Dreadfort," he mocked, his words full of scorn. "Certainly, your absence would be felt in this great effort, especially considering you were the lord who brought the fewest men to fight in this war."

Jon's response was calm and measured, his voice devoid of emotion as he addressed Lord Bolton.

"You are more than welcome to take your army and return home," he declared with unusual nonchalance. "But know this: I will not forget your defiance when I emerge victorious in this war, and the wildling threat is neutralized. I will return to your castle and drag you out by force, then hang you and all those who march back as oathbreakers."

The threat hung heavily in the air, the tension in the room thickening with each passing moment. Jon's words were a stark reminder of his authority and his unwavering determination to see his enemies defeated.

Lord Bolton, his face contorted with rage, could no longer contain his fury. "I will not suffer insults from a child!" he roared, his voice echoing through the war room like thunder.

In a flash of fury and desperation, Lord Bolton's hand darted towards his sword, his mind consumed by the blazing anger coursing through his veins. But before he could fully grasp the hilt, Jon whistled.

Suddenly, the monstrous form of Ghost, Jon's direwolf, erupted from the shadows like a vengeful spirit.

With the speed of light, Ghost leaped over the table, his massive body hurtling through the room in a blur of white fur and fangs. Lord Bolton's eyes widened in terror as the direwolf lunged at him, jaws agape.

In a wild frenzy, Ghost's jaws closed around Lord Bolton's outstretched hand, his powerful bone-crushing bite tearing through flesh with relentless force. The nauseating sound of bone breaking echoed through the room, muffled only by Lord Bolton's blood-curdling screams of agony.

Blood splattered in crimson arcs as Ghost tore Lord Bolton's hand from his arm.

Lord Bolton writhed in agony on the floor, his anguished screams reverberating off the stone walls of the war room.

Silence descended upon the room as Ghost, his eyes glowing with wild intensity, walked back to Jon's side, who patted him.

Jon's voice cut through the tense silence of the war room, his words clear and authoritative.

"My father taught me that the punishment for raising a sword against your liege lord is death," he proclaimed, his gaze unwavering as he addressed the gathered lords. "But I believe Lord Bolton was merely inspecting his blade in preparation for the battles to come. Perhaps it might be a bit damaged from the battles he's faced since leaving the Dreadfort." He then turned to the rest of the northern lords and continued, "My lords, now that the matter is settled, let us discuss what to do next."

The northern lords, still in shock from what they had just witnessed, straightened in their chairs and turned their attention to Jon. Even the most skeptical among them couldn't deny the authority and strength that Jon Stark exuded.

And so, Jon and the rest of the northern lords began to discuss the details of their strategy. Jon felt a weight lift from his shoulders as he watched the lords finally working together toward a common goal. He glanced sideways in Lord Bolton's direction and narrowed his eyes, vowing to keep someone watching the man.