The air was heavy with tension. Beneath the watchful eyes of hundreds of soldiers and camp followers, Jon Snow strode forward one step at a time. His target—the arrogant noble youth who had mocked him—stood stiffly, trying to keep his chin raised.
At first, the man looked smug, his lips curled in disdain. But with every measured step Jon took, that confidence began to falter.
Something was wrong.
The youth suddenly felt as if the boy approaching him was no bastard of Winterfell, but a beast from the frozen wilds, a predator that had marked its prey. Jon's expression gave nothing away. His face was carved from ice, but his eyes… those grey eyes held only the stillness of death.
The noble tried to steel himself, reminding his trembling heart that Ramsay Bolton stood behind him and that Roose Bolton might be watching. I must not back down. Absolutely not.
Yet his body betrayed him. His boot shifted backward without permission, grinding against the hard dirt. His breath quickened, his hands turned clammy. Fear seeped through his bones like a slow poison.
Then it happened.
Jon's black staff whistled through the air with the swiftness of a striking hawk. The weapon cracked against the man's forehead with a sharp thwack! The sound was crisp, like a drumstick against a drum rim, yet weighted with finality.
The noise silenced the world. The chatter, the jeers, even the restless horses—everything stopped, leaving only the mournful whistle of the northern wind.
The man's vision flashed black. His body went limp, collapsing to the ground like a sack of flesh emptied of bones. He struck the earth with a dull thud, lifeless before his cheek touched the dirt.
The insolent fool was dead.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Ramsay Bolton sprang forward, his eyes alight with false outrage and secret joy.
"Jon Snow! You dare kill a man?" he bellowed, his voice cracking with feigned indignation. "Seize him! Tie him up at once!"
The soldiers, already on edge, stirred like hounds unleashed. Many surged forward, ropes and steel in hand.
Only a small cluster of Winterfell men tried to intercede, but their voices were drowned out. Until now, it had been satisfying to march with Jon, to fight alongside him and watch him discipline unruly lords with his staff. The smallfolk had cheered him, and the soldiers had felt pride. But killing… killing changed everything.
Jon said nothing. His silence weighed heavier than shouts. This was the cost of lacking true bannermen. These men did not belong to him; they were Robb Stark's. They would not die for Jon Snow.
He looked at Ramsay, his expression cold as the frost. Then his voice cut through the air like steel drawn from a scabbard.
"He insulted my mother."
The words hung in the wind, as unyielding as the Wall itself.
Ramsay sneered. "And for that you murder him? An insult is no crime punishable by death!" His eyes gleamed with malice, though his voice played the role of justice. Inside, he was exultant. Checkmate. You've lost, Snow.
Voices swelled around him:
"That's right! You can't just kill anyone!"
"We demand justice!"
"Punish him!"
The cries came first from Ramsay's men, carefully planted for this very moment. Soon others, uncertain yet swayed by the noise, joined the chorus.
Rickard Karstark shook his head. His eyes lingered on Jon with disappointment. Foolish boy. You've walked straight into their snare.
Roose Bolton, standing still as a statue, finally allowed a smile to touch his lips. His pale eyes glittered with calculation. Perfect. The prey has walked into the trap himself. One dead man for command of the host? A bargain.
He raised his voice, smooth and cold. "Ser Rickard, forgive me. I must settle this matter. The man Eddard Stark's bastard has slain was my sworn vassal."
Rickard gave a stiff nod. He too thought Jon had gone too far. Having left the Wall, the boy should have kept a low profile. But instead, Jon had killed before hundreds. That demanded a price.
Roose stepped forward, his presence parting the crowd. His pale skin seemed almost translucent, blue veins showing faintly beneath his eyes. Though past forty, he looked strangely young, his expression unreadable.
"Lord Roose Bolton arrives!" cried a herald, and the soldiers drew back, forming a path.
Jon watched him come, his grey eyes unflinching.
"Lord," Ramsay said, bowing slightly, careful not to call him father in public.
Roose gave the faintest of nods, a flicker of approval passing through his gaze. Then his voice, smooth and devoid of warmth, carried across the camp.
"Someone, bind this murderer."
Bolton men advanced at once, their confidence hardened now that their lord himself commanded. The Winterfell men stepped back, unwilling to defy the Dreadfort.
But Jon's voice rang out once more, hard as hammered iron.
"I am here by order of Robb Stark, the acting Lord of Winterfell. By what right do you dare lay hands on me?"
Roose sneered. "You killed a man, Snow. Did Robb Stark grant you leave to slay at whim?" He thought Jon's defiance was nothing but the last howl of a dying wolf.
Ramsay could not resist. "You should hang for this! Hanging is what bastards and commoners deserve!" His words dripped venom, meant to strip Jon of even the dignity of a noble's death.
Rickard Karstark studied Jon's face. Amidst the jeers, the boy was calm, eerily so. He stood like Eddard Stark reborn, stern and unyielding. Rickard felt a pang of nostalgia—and regret. For Jon was walking toward certain death.
The soldiers closed in with ropes. But Jon's voice cut through again, low and deliberate.
"Since you believe me guilty," he said, locking eyes with Roose Bolton, "then I demand trial by combat."
The words struck like a thunderclap.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Soldiers murmured. Even Ramsay froze for an instant before his lips curled.
Trial by combat—an ancient law of Westeros. If a man stood accused, he could demand judgment not from lords or priests, but from the gods themselves, through battle. Win, and he was acquitted. Lose, and he would be executed where he stood.
To Jon, it was a cruel farce. A tradition that gave nobles yet another tool to oppress commoners. A true lord could always find a mighty champion. He had read of Tyrion Lannister's trial, of Oberyn Martell's stand. It was never about justice—only about strength.
Yet here, with the noose tightening, it was Jon's only path forward.
Ramsay's heart leapt. Yes. Fight and die. The gods themselves will strip you of Robb's favor.
Roose Bolton's pale eyes narrowed, then gleamed. This was even better. If Jon lost, Bolton would seize the moral high ground. He would claim that Robb Stark's chosen man had been judged unworthy by the gods. And then—command of the army would fall into his hands like ripe fruit.
But still, appearances mattered. Rickard was watching.
"Jon," Roose said softly, like a man savoring a rare wine, "think carefully. Trial by combat is no jest. Once invoked, it cannot be withdrawn. You might die here."
Rickard added, "If you confess, boy, you might yet live. Bend before the storm, and it may pass."
But Jon lifted his chin. His grey eyes burned with a cold fire.
"If the gods deem me guilty for defending my mother's honor, then let them strike me down. I will not kneel."
The wind howled through the camp as though the North itself approved. Even some soldiers, once jeering, now watched him with uncertain respect.
Ramsay sneered. Then die, bastard. Die and give me your place.
Just then, a herald's voice rose above the storm:
"Lord Robb Stark arrives!"
All heads turned.
Through the parted ranks came Robb Stark, surrounded by his guard. It was the first time the Young Wolf had appeared before the full host since gathering the banners.
Tall, broad-shouldered, his reddish-brown hair catching the pale sunlight, Robb looked every inch a lord. His presence commanded silence, and men bowed as he passed.
Rickard Karstark's eyes softened. A true Stark—save for the hair.
But Roose Bolton's heart was cold. Good. Let him defend his bastard. Then when Jon falls, Robb too will lose face before the host. And I will rise.
The game had only just begun.
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