Jon did not answer the taunt.
Behind him, Ygritte cried softly, "Jon!"
Tormund swore something too, but Jon did not look back. He merely raised a hand, signaling them not to follow.
Across from him, Ramsay arched an eyebrow, seemingly surprised that this bastard dared to advance alone.
The distance between them shrank.
Jon's gaze did not linger on Ramsay's face, nor did he look at his ostentatious armor or that unsettling pink cloak.
His gaze passed over Ramsay and settled on the pack of hounds in front of his horse-more precisely, on the figure curled up among them.
The figure wore ragged homespun clothes, his tangled hair covering most of his face. An iron collar encircled his neck, and he was tethered by a leather leash just like the hounds beside him, crouching on his hands and knees in the snow.
He seemed to sense Jon's gaze. He curled up tighter and lowered his head further, as though wishing he could turn himself into an unremarkable clod of earth.
But Jon recognized him.
That sense of familiarity could not be erased.
They had grown up together in Winterfell, practiced swordplay together in the courtyard, eaten together at the same table, and listened together to Maester Luwin's lessons in the Godswood.
Even though they had not seen each other for years, even though the man had wasted away beyond recognition, even though he knelt on the ground like a dog-
Jon still recognized him.
"...Theon?"
The figure jerked violently.
He did not raise his head. Instead, he buried it even lower, curling into a ball as though trying to hide himself in the snow.
Ramsay watched this and gave a cold laugh.
"He isn't Theon anymore." He gave the leather leash in his hand a casual tug. "His name is