Realizing the gravity of the situation, a cold sweat broke out on Jon's forehead. He grabbed a handful of Gold Cloaks and barked at them to follow him immediately.
But the soldiers hesitated.
The night was pitch black, and only the gods knew where the bandits had taken the noblewomen. The unspoken message in their eyes was clear: We aren't idiots.
Chasing an unknown number of enemies into a dark forest was suicide. These men were city guards, accustomed to patrolling streets, not hunting brigands in the wild.
Jon didn't give them time to argue. He snatched up a shield and physically shoved the reluctant soldiers forward.
"Move!" he roared.
Fortunately, after the initial ambush, no more arrows flew from the darkness. This confirmed Jon's suspicion: the master archer had stayed behind solely to delay them. Now that the alarm was raised, the shooter had likely retreated.
With that threat gone (for now), Jon felt slightly more confident. He brought two fingers to his lips and let out a long, piercing whistle.
Aroooooooo!
A haunting howl answered from the wilderness.
The Gold Cloaks froze, confusion and fear etched on their faces. Then, a shadow half the size of a man burst from the tree line like a white gale, tackling Jon to the ground.
Slurp, slurp, slurp.
As the sound of enthusiastic face-licking filled the air, the City Watch finally got a good look at the beast. It was a white wolf, impossibly large—too large to be natural.
"A Direwolf!" one of the veterans gasped.
The realization hit them. The "Shadow Hand" wasn't just some bureaucrat; he was a Stark of Winterfell. His sigil was the running direwolf, and the blood of the First Men ran in his veins.
Seeing this mythical beast submit to Jon transformed their fear into awe. The terror of the unknown forest faded slightly, replaced by a surge of courage. With a monster like that on their side, perhaps the odds weren't so bad.
Jon finally managed to calm Ghost down. He pointed toward the darkness, then held out a blanket he had grabbed from Sansa's tent.
"Find her, boy," Jon whispered.
Ghost sniffed the fabric deeply. Then, lifting his snout to test the air, the wolf let out an excited yip and bolted into the woods.
Jon waved his arm. "Follow the wolf! Now!"
The makeshift pursuit team plunged into the forest, guided by the white shadow ahead.
Within minutes, they spotted the flickering light of torches in the distance. They were closing in.
But as the lights grew clearer, Jon frowned. The familiar prickle of danger returned. His instincts screamed.
"Shields up! Defensive positions!"
Jon's shout cut through the air. Even though the Gold Cloaks were largely incompetent, a few had retained their training. They instinctively raised their shields.
Thwack!
An arrow, shot from nowhere, punched through a soldier's knee.
"Aaargh!"
The man collapsed, clutching his leg and screaming in agony.
The remaining guards panicked. Their kite shields couldn't cover everything. Watching their comrade writhe on the ground, they looked around wildly, eyes darting into the darkness like they were searching for White Walkers. They were terrified the next arrow would find their throats.
Fear breeds mistakes.
Before Jon could order them into a defensive circle, another arrow dropped from the sky, pinning another soldier's arm to his side.
Two men down. Their screams harmonized into a grim melody, echoing like The Rains of Castamere. The remaining Gold Cloaks were on the verge of breaking.
Jon realized the truth: the archer hadn't left. He was ghosting them, picking them off one by one to shatter their morale.
If this continued, the pursuit was over. Worse, Jon was in danger from his own men. If he pushed them too hard, these terrified soldiers might just turn on him, kill him, and run back to camp claiming they were ambushed. It was the safest option for them—sacrifice the Baron to save their own skins.
Nobody wants to die for a stranger.
Jon made a split-second decision. He turned to the soldiers.
"Listen to me! You lot, carry the wounded back to camp immediately. I will continue the pursuit alone."
He locked eyes with them. "If I am not back by dawn, you know what to do."
Without waiting for a response, Jon raised his shield and charged into the darkness alone.
The dynamic shifted instantly. By going alone, Jon removed the soldiers' immediate fear of death, but he also placed a heavy burden on them. If he died now, they would be blamed for abandoning a noble. They had no choice but to hope for his success.
Jon didn't look back. He expanded his Spirit perception to its limit, forcing his mind into that heightened state he had experienced before.
The world shifted into a monochrome sketch of gray and white in his mind's eye.
Ahead, he saw Ghost, tail high, sprinting forward. Further out, a lean figure was drawing a bowstring.
The distance was closing. Maybe fifty paces.
"Ghost! Hide!" Jon shouted.
The Direwolf obeyed instantly, turning mid-stride and vanishing into a thicket of bushes without a sound.
Twang!
The arrow was loosed at that exact moment, but with its target suddenly gone, it whistled harmlessly through the empty air.
Seeing his opening, Jon threw away his shield. He abandoned defense entirely and sprinted in a straight line, closing the gap with desperate speed.
The archer, seeing the Baron's reckless charge, hesitated. For a brief second, he wavered between shooting again and running. That hesitation cost him everything. He turned to flee.
Too late.
While the archer was distracted by Jon, Ghost had flanked him. The white wolf exploded from the undergrowth, cutting off the escape route.
The archer froze. Staring into the gaping maw of the Direwolf, counting the whiskers on its snout, he knew he was dead.
He dropped his bow and raised his hands high.
"Don't kill me, Lord Snow!" he screamed. "I surrender!"