Hello my dear sexy readers...
Enjoy.....
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The river was half-frozen, choked with slabs of ice that grounded against each other in the sluggish current. Beyond it lay the lands of House Bolton, the trees there seemed to grow differently.... taller, thinner, their branches twisting together.
There were no birds, only the wind, cutting through the pines with a low, mournful whistle.
Jon raised a fist and the group halted behind him in perfect, unnatural silence. The rag-wrapped armor and padded scabbards worked.
He pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at the icy path. Watch the crossing.
They moved in single pattern, the garron ponies picked their way carefully over the slick stones and ice.
Duncan's massive destrier slipped once, its iron-shod hoof cracking through the ice with a sound like a fractured bone, but the giant mercenary kept the beast steady with a brutal pull of the reins.
Once they reached the eastern bank, the temperature seemed to drop another ten degrees, they were officially trespassing in the Dreadfort's shadow.
Ghost, who had been padding silently beside Jon's mount, suddenly stopped.
The direwolf did not growl nor bark but simply froze, his massive head snapping toward a dense piles of pines to their left.
He took one step forward, his nose twitching, then looked back at Jon.
Jon recognized that look, it wasn't the look Ghost gave when he smelled a deer.
Jon threw his fist up again and slid out of the saddle, boots sinking softly into the snow. He patted his palm downward.... Dismount The five men slid from their horses, drawing short swords and axes with barely a whisper of steel. Duncan moved up beside Jon, his warhammer gripped tightly in two massive hands.
Jon pointed at Ghost, then at the group. Follow.....
They crept through the trees, pushing aside the dead, branches. The deeper they went, the darker it became.
Then, the smell hit them.
It wasn't the clean, sharp smell of the winter woods instead it was a heavy, stench of blood.
Hake gagged, slapping a hand over his mouth.
They broke through the tree line into a small clearing, and the world turned into a slaughterhouse.
The snow in the center of the clearing wasn't white. It was a slushy, horrifying pool of deep crimson. At the center of the bloody circle lay a pile of tattered rags... what was left of a coarse wool peasant dress.
But it was what surrounded the dress that made the veteran thugs freeze in their tracks.
Nailed to the trunk of a massive, dead oak tree was a sheet of pale, translucent parchment, except it wasn't parchment.
It was human skin, stretched tight and pinned with iron spikes, the edges ragged and crusted with frozen blood.
Below it, resting neatly on a tree stump, was a severed head.
It belonged to a young woman, her hair was matted with dark, frozen gore. Her eyes were wide open, locked in a stare of absolute, unadulterated terror, the frost already crystallizing on her eyelashes.
Her lips were pulled back in a silent, frozen scream, the flesh of her cheeks and neck had been carved away with terrifying precision.
Goran, the brute who had boasted about fighting a bear two days ago, dropped his axe into the snow and turned to the side, fell to his knees, and vomited violently.
The other men stared, paralyzed, they were criminals. They had cut throats for copper, broken fingers for debts, and left men bleeding in alleys. But this? This was the work of a demon, it was utterly depraved.
Duncan stood motionless, his dark eyes locked on the severed head.
The giant mercenary's breathing grew heavy, his jaw clenching so hard Jon could hear the teeth grinding, the knuckles of his thick hands turned bone-white around the haft of his hammer.
"Seven Hells," Duncan whispered, his voice trembling with a rage that seemed to shake his massive frame. "What kind of beast does this to a girl?"
Jon didn't answer, his modern mind, the part of him that viewed this world as a story, as a game to be won was recoiling violently.
He had read the books, saw the series and knew Ramsay Bolton was a monster.
But reading on a page was vastly different from smelling the blood and seeing the terrified, frozen eyes of a girl who had been butchered for sport.
He forced the nausea down, he couldn't afford to be human right now..... He needed to be Jon Fucking Snow.
He stepped forward, boots crunching in the bloody snow, and looked at the ground.
System... Activate Tracking.
[Tracking Engaged]
[Analyzing Ground Disturbances...]
Text boxes bloomed in Jon's vision, pointing to specific tracks.
[Data Point 1: Four sets of canine printsEstimated weight: 120 lbs each
Breed: Mastiff/Hound mix]
[Data Point 2: Five sets of heavy equine prints, deep impressions indicate armored riders]
[Data Point 3: One set of medium equine prints.... Unarmored rider]
[Time of Event: Approximately 14 hours ago]
Jon knelt, touching a frozen clump of blood. 14 hours, they were close. Ramsay had finished this hunt last night and he would be sleeping it off at the Dreadfort, or..... he was already out looking for his next piece of sport.
Jon stood up and turned back to his men.
Goran was wiping his mouth with a shaky trembling hand. Hake looked like he wanted to run back to Winterfell and never leave the tavern again. Only Duncan looked ready to fight, his eyes burning with a cold, righteous fury.
"Look at this," Jon commanded, his voice slicing through the cold air, he didn't bother with hand signals now. He wanted them to hear him as he pointed to the flayed skin. "Look at it. Don't turn away."
Hake flinched but forced his eyes to the tree.
"You thought we were here to rob a caravan," Jon said, his voice deadly calm. "You thought we were going to ambush some fat merchant for a few silvers.....No."
Jon walked over to the tree stump and stared down at the frozen head of the girl.
"This is the work of Ramsay Snow," Jon said. "He is the Bastard of the Dreadfort, he hunts women with dogs and skins them alive while they breathe. And he is going to keep doing it until someone stops him."
Jon drew his castle-forged sword, the cold grey iron in his hand felt heavy with purpose.
"We are not mercenaries today," Jon told his squad, meeting each of their terrified, hardened eyes. "We are Justice ⚖️. We are going to find the rabid dog that did this, and we are going to put him down in a way such that he wished he would have never been born."
Duncan slammed the head of his warhammer into the dirt, the heavy thud echoing in the clearing.
"Aye," the giant rumbled, his voice thick with murder. "Point the way, Snow."
Goran picked up his axe, his face pale but set. Hake drew his sword, his hand finally steady. The horror had passed, replaced by the grim, violent resolve of men who realized they were the only thing standing between a true monster and his next meal.
Jon checked his mental map, pulling up the coordinates he had memorized from the Smartphone.
"Back to the horses," Jon ordered. " We get ahead of him and take the high ground, and we dig in."
Jon looked back at the severed head one last time.
Winter is coming for you, Ramsay, Jon thought. And I am Fucking bringing it.
Authors Note:-
Well that was sad....
I hated Ramsay more than joffrey.
So guys tell me different manner in which we can kill him ... Comment.
We are the hounds of Justice ( shield 🛡️ theme song).
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