What filled Jorah with even greater despair was that several hounds ahead of the cavalry were charging toward his hiding place, their bodies low to the ground.
"Damn it!"
Jorah cursed, using the last of his strength to urge on his exhausted mount.
But the Bolton hounds were swift, and the horsemen quickly moved to surround him.
Jorah's horse was already spent and could not pick up speed.
An arrow whistled shrilly through the air and struck the horse squarely in the rump.
The warhorse let out a piercing whinny.
It gave a wretched cry, and Jorah was caught off guard, thrown from its back and slammed hard into the ground.
Before he could struggle to his feet, several heavy leather boots stamped down on his arms. Rough ropes quickly wound around his wrists and ankles, biting into his flesh.
Like captured prey, he could not move.
"Young master Ramsay, we've caught him!"
A Bolton soldier reported excitedly at the top of his voice.
A figure parted the soldiers, slowly walked up to Jorah, and crouched down.
Jorah raised his head with difficulty and saw a young yet deeply unsettling face.
Long black hair clung greasily to his temples. His unusually thick lips curled slightly upward, as though they always held a trace of a cruel smile.
Most chilling of all were his eyes, dark and hollow, yet glittering with the cruel interest of a cat toying with a mouse.
"Welcome home, Ser Jorah. House Bolton warmly welcomes your arrival!"
Ramsay's voice was as soft as a lover's whisper, yet it sent a chill shooting up Jorah's spine to the crown of his head.
Jorah struggled. "Who are you? Roose Bolton's bastard? Release me at once! I have important intelligence! About that Easterner! Your father will be interested!"
The word