Roose Bolton was a man who rarely raised his voice. He did not need to. His words, quiet and measured, carried the weight of knives sliding free from their sheaths. When he spoke now, Ramsay listened with the eager hunger of a hound that had just caught the scent of blood.
"The reason Robb and Jon's little double act works so well," Roose murmured, his pale eyes reflecting the candlelight, "is because Jon Snow wears the mantle of an enforcer. The people see him as the hand of law, the punisher of unruly soldiers. As long as that identity remains unbroken, his actions are cloaked in righteousness. But if we tear that cloak away, if we drag him down into the mud, then every blow he strikes will look like spite, not justice."
Ramsay's lips twisted into a grin. His father's meaning was clear enough now. "You want me to provoke him," he said, eyes gleaming.
"Exactly," Roose replied smoothly. "And tell me, do you know how best to do it?"
Ramsay's grin widened, and he nodded with a mad little laugh. He did know. He was a bastard himself, after all. None understood the shame of bastardy like another who bore the name Snow. He would remind Jon of what he was. Not just a bastard, but the lowest sort of bastard—a boy without even the dignity of knowing his mother's name.
There was hierarchy even among the illegitimate. A noblewoman's bastard might still strut about with a certain pride, wrapped in the faint glow of his mother's blood. But Jon Snow? Born of no one knew who, the son of some nameless woman lost in whispers—he stood almost at the bottom. Ramsay knew the wound well, for it was the wound he shared, though he masked his own shame with cruelty.
In the days that followed, the camp of the Northern host shifted into a strange rhythm. Outwardly, everything seemed calm. Too calm. The soldiers, once unruly and prone to brawling, suddenly became models of discipline. No tavern fights, no harassment of merchants, not even a scuffle between men of different lords. It was as though an invisible hand had stilled the entire camp.
Jon Snow did not like it. Standing with Theon Greyjoy upon Winterfell's wall, he gazed at the orderly lines of tents and cookfires below, the quiet banners fluttering in the wind. His frown deepened.
"Theon," he said quietly, "this isn't peace. This is the silence of wolves before the hunt. A big fish is about to bite."
Theon tilted his head, smirking as usual. "You think someone's afraid of you, Jon? Afraid of your stick and your scowls?"
Jon's dark eyes did not waver. "Not afraid. Planning. This calm… it's the calm before the storm. Someone wants to break me."
Theon chuckled. "Then what will you do?"
Jon's lips curved in a faint, humorless smile. "Have you heard of trial by combat?"
Theon blinked. "Trial by—Gods, Jon. You mean to kill someone?"
Jon did not answer. His silence was answer enough. Theon shivered, realizing with a start that Jon's calm was more unsettling than any threat. For all his Greyjoy blood, Theon found himself wondering who truly carried the ironborn's ruthlessness—himself, or this bastard of Winterfell.
The trap was sprung two days later.
Jon had been patrolling Winter Town when a breathless soldier came running. "Lord Snow! A fight's broken out—Bolton men against Harras's! They'll kill each other if it goes on!"
Jon's jaw tightened. He knew at once this was the bait. Still, he turned to Theon and muttered, "Find Robb. Tell him I may kill today."
Theon's smirk faltered. He had grown up among the Starks, softened by Winterfell's halls, but in that moment, he realized Jon was colder than any Greyjoy reaver. With a stiff nod, he slipped away toward the castle.
Jon led his men toward the commotion. The clash of voices reached them before the scene itself—shouts, curses, the sound of fists striking flesh. When Jon arrived, he found chaos, but not the kind born of true violence. The two groups of soldiers flailed at each other with exaggerated blows, their cries more like actors on a stage than warriors in earnest. The "injured" bore little more than bloody noses and torn tunics.
Jon's lips curled in a sneer. Pitiful. They don't even bleed properly for their play.
He knew Roose Bolton was near. Perhaps Ramsay too. But Jon did not bother searching. Instead, he raised his hand. "Staffs," he ordered.
At once, more than twenty Winterfell men rushed forward, wooden staves cracking down upon armored shoulders and helms. But unlike the drunken louts Jon had subdued before, these men had come prepared. Steel glinted beneath their tunics—hidden armor. The staffs rang against metal, the sound hollow and unsatisfying.
From a distance, Ramsay Snow watched, his face alight with glee. "He's in my trap," he whispered to the cluster of noble youths at his side. They nodded eagerly, eyes fixed on Jon. Ramsay's father had promised reward to any who stood witness against the Stark bastard.
The fight slowed, the two groups forming a rough circle. Jon stepped into the ring, staff in hand. His strikes were precise, merciless. One by one, men fell back before him, none able to last more than a heartbeat against his speed.
Then the first voice rang out.
"Jon Snow!" A soldier with a thick Dreadfort accent shouted above the din. "You're no enforcer. You're a deserter! You ran from the Wall. What right have you to swagger about here?"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"A deserter?"
"Seven hells, is it true?"
"The Starks have a deserter ruling us?"
Even Jon's own men shifted uneasily. Robb had declared his return sanctioned by the Watch, but in this moment, truth mattered less than perception. The word deserter clung like a curse.
Ramsay's companions pressed the attack. A thin youth with a scraggly mustache sneered, stepping forward. "Deserter, bastard, both in one. Tell me, Snow, do you even know who your mother was? Or is she lying in some man's bed still, spreading her legs for coppers?"
The laughter that followed was cruel, mocking, rehearsed.
"Arrogant bastard!"
"Doesn't even know his whore of a mother!"
"I swear, I saw her once in a brothel!"
The jeers struck harder than any blow. Around Jon, eyes turned sharp and suspicious. Even his own soldiers shifted back, as if afraid his shame would stain them too. He stood alone, surrounded by scorn.
And Ramsay Snow smiled. This was the moment he had been waiting for. Jon would lash out, humiliated, stripped of control. One outburst, one death, and the mask of righteous enforcer would shatter.
But Jon did not lash out.
He stood still, staff gripped loosely, his face unreadable. He heard the insults, the filth flung at the memory of a woman he had never known. And something inside him grew cold. Very cold.
Their accents betrayed them. Every voice was Dreadfort-born. Ramsay had overplayed his hand.
The fuzzy-mustached youth stepped closer, sneering, spewing more venom. Jon's eyes fixed on him—not with anger, but with the quiet certainty of a man already measuring a grave.
It was then that Roose Bolton arrived, gliding into the circle with Rickard Karstark at his side. Rickard was stern-faced, his gray beard bristling as he frowned upon the scene.
"My apologies, Ser Rickard," Roose said smoothly, his tone one of feigned regret. "That you should witness such disorder in the host. It seems Robb Stark's bastard brother lacks his sire's honor. A deserter, they say. Eddard's likeness without his virtue."
Rickard Karstark's frown deepened. He had heard the jeers. The word deserter carried weight, and even loyalty to the Starks could not silence the doubt it seeded.
Jon, standing in the circle of mockery, lifted his staff and began to walk. Step by step, he moved toward the sneering youth with the mustache.
Ramsay leaned forward, his grin wolfish. Roose's pale eyes gleamed. At last, they thought, the bastard wolf would bare his fangs.
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