The military camp, once noisy with shouts and clashing tempers, had fallen into a suffocating silence. The north wind whistled through the banners of the Dreadfort, each marked with the gruesome image of the flayed man. They fluttered like bloody skins, chilling the marrow of those who dared glance at them. In contrast, Winterfell's direwolf banner stood solitary, caught between a sea of enemies, its proud shape seeming lonely and unsupported.
Yet the crowd only grew larger.
Word of the confrontation had spread quickly, and lords from nearby regions sent their retainers to watch. Some came out of curiosity, others out of schadenfreude. After all, nothing stirred men's blood like the promise of blood itself.
Robb Stark stood among them, his expression taut. At fifteen, he had seen battles and made decisions as the heir of Winterfell, but he had never witnessed his father's authority challenged so brazenly in a military camp. The air here was thick with more than just cold; it was thick with politics, ambition, and the kind of danger swords alone could not cut through.
Still, Jon Snow had prepared him. Before this moment, Jon had whispered contingency plans into his ear. If the situation turned sour, Robb needed to do just one thing—scold everyone.
Yes. Scold.
Jon had explained it with the calm assurance of someone who had once been a boss in another life, far away from Westeros. A leader should never waste his anger on a single man, he had said. That invited grudges. Better to reprimand all at once—making every man wary, but leaving none with a personal vendetta.
Robb, uncertain but trusting his half-brother, had agreed.
Now the camp waited for his judgment.
Robb's voice finally rang out, steady though his heart beat hard in his chest.
"Although Chasen insulted Jon first, Jon's excessive killing violated the law. He must also bear responsibility. Jon, do you still insist upon your innocence? Do you demand trial by combat?"
Jon's expression remained composed, but Robb could see the steel in his eyes. This was no boy's whim. It was a direct challenge.
Chasen, the arrogant noble youth who had provoked the fight, scowled from the sidelines. His name was already tainted by cowardice, but he could still hide behind Roose Bolton's influence.
Jon's reply carried through the crisp air:
"Yes, Lord Stark. I am innocent. Let the gods prove my purity!"
A murmur spread through the gathered men. To most, Jon sounded proud, but also reckless—like a boy throwing himself at the mercy of fate.
Roose Bolton stepped forward, his pale eyes glinting like ice. His smile was subtle, sharp as a knife's edge.
"Jon Snow," Bolton said smoothly, "you left the Night's Watch to avenge Lord Eddard. That is no small thing, and I understand your grief. If you apologize to Chasen's kin, we might delay your punishment until after the war."
The offer seemed magnanimous. Many around nodded, impressed by Bolton's fairness. Even Rickard Karstark's hard gaze softened for a moment. Here, it seemed, was a lord willing to put honor and practicality before vengeance.
But Jon heard the hidden snares in Bolton's words. A concession now would place him firmly under Bolton's shadow, his honor stained. More importantly, it would allow Bolton to seize the moral high ground and, with it, military authority.
Jon answered coldly:
"Thank you for your kindness, Lord Bolton. But if the gods judge me guilty, I shall atone with my life."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. To some, Jon's stubbornness seemed noble. To others, it was folly.
Roose Bolton's lips twitched. He bowed his head slightly, concealing the dark amusement in his eyes.
"As you wish," he said. "If he insists, let the gods judge. My lord Robb, choose the time for trial by combat."
Robb hesitated, looking to Jon.
Jon spoke before he could answer. "The army must march soon. My affairs should not delay it. The trial will be held now."
A low murmur of surprise swept across the assembly. Bold, reckless, proud—opinions collided. But Jon's decisiveness forced Robb's hand.
Robb nodded. "So be it. Prepare the arena."
Soldiers moved quickly, clearing a space and marking the ground.
Theon Greyjoy edged closer to Jon, whispering urgently. "Jon, are you certain? Bolton brought four thousand men from the Dreadfort. Among them are bound to be killers. Even with your skill…"
Jon's gaze flickered toward Robb, surrounded by murmuring lords. He spoke low, his words for Theon alone.
"No matter what I say later, make Robb agree. We must crush Bolton's ambition here and now. The army must remain in Stark hands."
Theon swallowed, nodded, and said no more.
Soon, Roose Bolton's champion stepped forward. The crowd fell silent.
He was a towering brute of a man, standing nearly six and a half feet tall, his shoulders broad enough to block the sun. His armor gleamed—chainmail over heavy plates—and in his hands he carried a monstrous two-handed sword. Its blade shone like cold fire, promising death with every swing.
Men muttered in awe. A warrior like this was rare, the kind used to smash enemy lines and scatter formations. One man like him could cut down scores in battle.
The betting began immediately.
"I'll say three rounds!" shouted a soldier, tossing a copper star into the dirt. "He'll cut the bastard down before three!"
"Ten rounds," another argued. "Jon's beaten plenty of men lately. He'll last longer than three!"
Coins clinked, copper and silver and even the occasional golden dragon flashing in the firelight. Laughter and curses followed, men eager to gamble on death as if it were a tavern game.
Then, a deeper voice boomed from behind the crowd.
"Hodor!"
The men fell back quickly, revealing a towering figure—Hodor, the gentle giant. From behind his massive frame peeked the head of young Bran Stark. The boy's eyes shone fiercely.
"I bet Jon will win!" Bran declared, tossing several golden dragons into the pile.
The soldiers laughed, though uneasily. They muttered about foolish boys and lost coins, but none dared mock Bran openly. Not with Winterfell's guards standing nearby.
The arena was ready. The champions entered.
The Bolton swordsman strode into the ring like a beast entering a pit, swinging his massive blade as if it weighed no more than a child's toy. His supporters roared:
"Tear him apart!"
"Kill him!"
Ramsay Bolton, watching from the edge of the crowd, smirked. Victory was already his. With land promised as reward, his champion would fight like a man possessed.
Jon stepped forward. Theon moved to hand him his sword, but Jon shook his head.
He pointed instead to his long wooden staff.
"Lord Robb," Jon said loudly, his voice carrying across the assembly. "Chasen was incited by Ramsay. For that reason, I will fight only with my staff. If I win, Ramsay's guilt will be plain, and I shall kill him myself!"
The crowd erupted in shock.
"Madness!" someone cried.
"He'll be slaughtered!"
Roose Bolton sneered openly now. Rickard Karstark shook his head in disdain, muttering under his breath.
But a booming laugh broke through the noise.
"Hahaha! Now here's a young man with fire in his belly!"
The speaker was none other than Greatjon Umber, who had only arrived the day before with his army from Last Hearth. His huge voice carried like thunder, and his laughter unsettled even Bolton's men.
Theon leaned toward Robb, whispering quickly. Robb hesitated, then glanced at Jon. His brother's eyes, far from reckless, burned with calm certainty.
Roose Bolton frowned slightly, sensing something beyond his control. Still, he could not object. This situation favored him—or so he thought.
"Very well," Bolton said smoothly. "Insulting a man's mother is a disgrace indeed. If Jon Snow wins with only a staff, then perhaps the gods wish to punish Ramsay. And I will say nothing against it."
The trap was set. The stage prepared.
And as the crowd surged forward to watch, Jon Snow stepped into the arena, gripping his staff with steady hands.
The gods would judge.
And all of the North would witness.
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