Roose Bolton's words fell like cold drops of rain into Ramsay's ears. His bastard son's eyes flickered with shifting emotions—expectation, disappointment, malice, and finally, the practiced calm of a man who hid every true thought behind a mask.
But when his gaze returned to the arena, Ramsay's expression sharpened. There stood the massive armored swordsman, towering over Jon Snow like a mountain. Next to him, Jon seemed almost slight—a youth holding nothing more than a long wooden staff, a stick that looked ready to snap against steel.
In Ramsay's mind, the outcome was already decided.
Jon Snow would die here.
That suited him well. A bastard's corpse was nothing worth mourning.
Still, Ramsay remembered his role. This was not his fight, nor his decision. His place was to watch, to wait, and to profit from the outcome.
The stakes were clear. If Jon lost, he would lose his life, and Robb Stark's hard-won authority would collapse like a child's toy castle. Roose Bolton could then extend his influence across the camp, gathering the North's banners under his command. But if Jon somehow won, he would not only save his life but also win the right to strike Ramsay down in front of everyone.
The circle of fate had been drawn.
The duel began in a ring no bigger than a noble's hall. Soldiers had marked the ground hastily with lines of white ash, enclosing the combatants in a crude but undeniable boundary. The crowd pressed close, breath fogging in the cold, anticipation crackling like firewood.
Jon stood calm, staff in hand, eyes locked on his opponent.
The swordsman, bristling with confidence, sneered. "I know who you are—Lord Eddard's bastard. For that reason, I won't kill you. It's not too late to confess now."
His tone dripped with condescension, as though Jon were already kneeling at his feet.
Jon's lips curled into a sharp smile. "Remember this. The one who defeats you today is stronger than the Sword of the Morning."
The crowd gasped. The Sword of the Morning—Ser Arthur Dayne—was a legend, remembered in song and tale as one of the greatest knights to ever draw steel. For a boy of Jon's age to compare himself to such a man seemed arrogant beyond reason.
The swordsman barked a laugh, full of contempt. To him, Jon was nothing more than a green youth, barely old enough to shave, daring to speak the names of legends. He would crush him quickly, then claim his reward.
But Jon did not wait for the mountain to move.
He struck first.
His sudden lunge startled the crowd and forced the armored man back on his heels. Theon Greyjoy's breath caught in his throat. Once, he had mocked Jon endlessly to soothe his own pride, but in this moment, he found himself unable to do so. He admired Jon's courage—and his plan.
Robb Stark sat straight-backed at the center of the assembly, his face composed, but his fists clenched tightly inside his sleeves. He would not show doubt. Not now.
"Go, Jon! Don't lose!" Bran's voice cut through the noise, high and earnest. From his seat on Hodor's shoulders, he shouted with all the faith of a child who did not yet grasp that trial by combat was not a game, but a fight where only one man would walk away alive.
"Hodor!" the giant bellowed, echoing his charge's encouragement.
Steel rang as the swordsman recovered from his surprise and swung. His broadsword howled through the air, wide and devastating arcs meant to cleave Jon in half. The weight of each strike forced Jon backward, forcing him to retreat step by step.
The Dreadfort soldiers roared approval, chanting for their champion. This was spectacle, and their man was putting on a show of strength.
Yet some noticed something odd.
Jon's retreat was not clumsy. His footwork was precise, his movements quick and fluid, always sliding just beyond the reach of steel. Each retreat flowed into a small counterattack, his staff flicking and striking in ways that seemed almost playful.
"This lad moves like a damned monkey!" Greatjon Umber bellowed with laughter, his great beard quivering as he tugged it in excitement.
Rickard Karstark's eyes narrowed with interest. At first, he had dismissed Jon as reckless. But watching him now—measured steps, sharp eyes, controlled breathing—he wondered. Could it be this bastard was not mad at all, but supremely confident?
Theon's eyes lit up with sudden understanding. "I see it now! He's trying to exhaust him! That's why he's not wearing armor!"
Robb shot him a sharp look. Even if Theon had guessed correctly, shouting it aloud was a mistake. And sure enough, Ramsay's ears caught every word.
"Ser Took! Careful! He wants to tire you out!" Ramsay shouted.
The crowd hissed in disapproval. Shouting advice during trial by combat was dishonorable.
"Where did that little rat come from!" Greatjon thundered, pointing a massive finger at Ramsay. The boy paled instantly, knees shaking.
Roose Bolton's voice slipped in like a blade of ice. "He is my bastard."
"Oh, so it's Lord Leech's bastard," Greatjon roared with laughter. "No wonder!"
The insult earned grins and muffled chuckles from several lords, though Roose's face never changed. His pallid expression was as unreadable as a mask of stone.
In the arena, the swordsman slowed his assault, realizing brute strength would not be enough. He shifted to a guarded stance, sword raised defensively.
"You almost fooled me, boy," he growled. "You've got a quick mind and quick feet. But I won't fall for it again."
Jon tilted his head, eyes gleaming with cold amusement. "Do you really think I was trying to exhaust you?"
A ripple of unease stirred through the swordsman's chest.
Jon's voice cut like a knife. "I've never stood on a battlefield. I wanted to see how capable a true killer was. Now I see—you're nothing special. Now it's my turn."
The words landed like a hammer blow.
Jon attacked.
His staff became a blur, striking from unexpected angles. The swordsman blocked the first sweep, but Jon was already inside his guard, striking his ribs, his thighs, his arms. Each blow thudded against chainmail with a force that made the man grunt in pain.
This was why Jon had chosen a staff. Against armor, a sword could cut or pierce—but chainmail turned aside sharp edges. Blunt force, however, bypassed steel entirely, crushing flesh and bone beneath.
Thud-thud-thud—his strikes fell in a relentless rhythm, like a drumbeat of war.
The swordsman staggered under the assault. His guard wavered. Then Jon planted the staff, vaulted upward, and lashed out with a boot. His kick slammed into the man's jaw with a sickening crack. Blood and spit sprayed into the air.
The crowd roared, voices rising in disbelief. Never had they seen a duel fought with such audacity, such creativity.
Robb and Theon's fists clenched tighter—not in fear, but in excitement. Their brother was not surviving. He was dominating.
"Go, Jon!" Bran shouted, his little face flushed with excitement. Hodor shifted uneasily beneath his weight, but the boy barely noticed.
"Well struck!" Greatjon bellowed, laughter booming. "By the gods, this boy carries Eddard's blood! Hahaha!"
Even as he laughed, he caught sight of Roose Bolton's shadowed face, and the sight pleased him more than any mead.
Roose's expression remained cold, but inside, his designs were unraveling.
Ramsay, however, was less composed. His gut churned as he watched his father's champion falter. Sweat dampened his palms, his chest tight with rising fury.
How? he thought. How could a bastard like him fight like this? We are both bastards. Why does he shine, while I—
His teeth ground together. Hatred welled in his heart.
On the field, the swordsman staggered back, breath ragged. He had no strength left to swing, no answer for Jon's relentless assault.
Jon pressed forward, eyes blazing. With a leap, he landed on the man's back, his staff sliding across the thick neck like a strangler's garrote. He wrenched it tight.
The man thrashed, choking, his massive frame convulsing. But Jon held firm, muscles locked with ruthless determination.
The crowd counted in their heads. One second. Two. Three. The swordsman's eyes bulged, rolling back. Foam flecked his lips. His sword clattered uselessly to the ground.
Then he collapsed with a thunderous crash, dust billowing up from the earth.
The North had its answer.
Jon Snow stood, chest heaving, his staff clenched like a victor's scepter.
The crowd's roar thundered through the camp. Some shouted in awe, others in disbelief. But among them all, one pair of eyes burned hotter than the rest.
Ramsay Bolton stared back at Jon.
And Jon's gaze found him, sharp and unyielding. Their eyes locked across the arena.
In that moment, Ramsay felt it—a chill that sank into his bones, as if he had been dragged into an ice cellar.
Jon Snow was not looking at a defeated swordsman. He was looking at him.
The true battle had only just begun.
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