Winter had come.
Snow drifted endlessly over the skies of Winterfell, blanketing the ancient castle in white.
Standing atop the battlements, Jon Snow held a bronze spyglass to his eye, silently watching the eastern horizon.
He let out a cloud of white breath before lowering the spyglass.
"So... Ramsay has finally come."
A spark of excitement crossed Jon's face.
Galon and the others were all fighting in the south.
He alone had remained behind to defend the North, and he had grown restless waiting.
"Pass the order."
"Everyone prepare for battle!"
At Jon's command, the bells of Winterfell began to ring.
The drawbridges were immediately raised.
Maester Luwin and Sansa joined him atop the walls, looking out at the approaching banners of House Bolton.
"Lord Robett's men are already hidden in the Wolfswood."
"Ser Seaworth's cavalry is in position as well."
Watching the flayed man banners swaying through the falling snow, Maester Luwin calmly reported the latest developments.
Ever since Galon's letter had reached Winterfell, preparations had been underway for Bolton's inevitable assault.
Jon had dispatched scouts to watch every road leading from the Dreadfort.
At the same time, he had ordered Torrhen's Square and Castle Cerwyn to monitor any movement around the nearby villages while calling Robett Glover's army from Deepwood Motte to reinforce Winterfell.
Two days earlier, Robett had arrived with the forces of Deepwood Motte.
Yesterday, the scouts had reported Ramsay's advance.
He had been one day's march away.
What Ramsay did not realize was that every move he made was being watched by Jon Snow.
"No rush."
Jon smiled faintly.
"Ramsay's simplest plan is to trick us into opening the gates.
We'll keep him waiting until afternoon.
By then, whether he wants warmth or lumber for siege engines, he'll have no choice but to cut timber from the Wolfswood."
He turned toward Sansa, explaining his plan with quiet confidence.
"And Lord Robett will be waiting for him there.
With Deepwood Motte's longbows, they'll cripple Ramsay's men with the very first volley.
Then we'll sound the horns. Castle Cerwyn's cavalry will strike their flank.
Ramsay won't stand a chance."
When Robett had received news that Galon had conquered the Iron Islands, he had celebrated for days.
Freed of any concern for his own lands, he had marched south with the remaining two thousand soldiers from Deepwood Motte, bringing with him the new bows crafted by Maester Beckman.
After the brutal fighting against the Ironborn, Jon's Glover archers had nearly exhausted their stock of the specialized arrows.
Robett's reinforcements had replenished both bows and ammunition, greatly strengthening Winterfell's defenses.
Unlike Jon, Maester Luwin remained cautious.
"We should still be careful."
"I'll send word to Lord Robett to prepare."
Sansa, carrying herself with the authority of the Lady of Winterfell, stepped forward and addressed the soldiers upon the walls.
"For the North!"
"Win this battle! Protect our home!"
At once—
Every man on the walls, Jon included, raised his weapon in answer.
Time slowly passed.
By early afternoon, a force bearing the flayed man banners of the Dreadfort appeared upon the plain before the Hunter's Gate.
Ramsay had not stopped at Winter Town.
It lay directly before Winterfell's main entrance and would have been difficult to hold.
If the castle refused to open its gates, he would have needed timber from the Wolfswood regardless.
Staring at Winterfell before him, a greedy smile spread across Ramsay's face.
'As soon as those gates open, everyone inside is mine. Then I'll become Lord of Winterfell.'
'I wonder whether that bastard Glover has already bedded the Stark girl.'
'If not...'
He grinned wickedly.
'I'll gladly do it myself.'
With a wave of his hand, he sent one of his men forward.
"My lord Stark!"
The messenger shouted toward the walls.
"House Bolton has come under the king's command to reinforce Winterfell!"
"Open the gates and allow us entry!"
From atop the battlements, Jon looked down at the envoy with obvious disappointment.
He had hoped Ramsay himself would ride close enough for a single arrow to end everything.
Instead, the bastard had wisely remained behind his army.
"By the king's command?"
Jon called back.
"What command? The Ironborn have already withdrawn. Winterfell requires no reinforcements."
The messenger answered loudly,
"His Grace is concerned about the wildlings!
King Robb received reports that wildlings were raiding the North, so we were ordered to come to your aid."
Jon snorted.
"Very well."
"Wait here. I'll consult Lady Sansa."
The envoy's heart leapt.
He thought the deception had succeeded.
One minute passed.
Ten minutes.
Half an hour.
An hour.
Then two hours.
Winterfell remained completely silent.
After marching all day, the exhausted Bolton army stood motionless beneath the steadily falling snow.
Some soldiers were nearly too cold to remain standing.
"My lord..."
One of Ramsay's officers stepped forward.
"Do you think Winterfell has any intention of opening the gates?
They're mocking us.
The cold is getting worse. Shouldn't we light fires before the men freeze?"
By now, Ramsay understood perfectly.
He had been made a fool of.
Barely containing his rage, he snarled, "Cut down the trees. Light the fires. Make camp."
"When I finally get inside that castle, I'll make every man on those walls pay."
With the order given, nearly eight hundred soldiers marched toward the Wolfswood under their officers' commands.
The moment they reached the trees and began raising their axes—
Whish!
Whish!
Whish!
A shrill chorus tore through the snowy air.
From deep within the Wolfswood behind them came a deadly storm of arrows.
The black shafts descended like the scythes of death upon the completely unsuspecting Bolton soldiers.
Their leather armor proved utterly worthless.
The specially crafted arrows punched straight through, tearing into flesh and sending sprays of blood across the snow.
"Ambush!"
"Enemy attack!"
"They're in the forest!"
"We've been trapped!"
The Bolton ranks erupted into complete chaos.
Watching from the battlements, Jon seized the moment.
"Sound the horn!"
The long, mournful blast echoed across the frozen plain before the Hunter's Gate.
The next instant— Dark figures poured from the Wolfswood like a black tide.
"The Glovers!"
"It's Glover's army!"
Ramsay's face drained of color. 'Wasn't Galon fighting in the south? How is he here?!'
"My lord!"
One of his officers shouted desperately.
"We have to form a defensive line! If this continues, we'll be—"
An arrow struck him through the throat before he could finish.
Ramsay flinched violently.
"Shields!"
"Raise your shields!"
Bolton's shieldmen scrambled to comply.
Before they could even assemble into formation, the thunder of galloping horses erupted from the south.
Like a bolt of lightning, Castle Cerwyn's cavalry crashed into the bewildered Bolton army.
At the very same moment, the Hunter's Gate of Winterfell slowly opened. Jon led nearly seven hundred men out from the castle.
"By order of the Lord of Winterfell!"
"Capture Ramsay alive! Destroy the Bolton traitors!"
"Forward!"
Seven hundred soldiers were not many.
But against an army already collapsing into panic, they were the final weight that broke it completely.
The assault from three directions lasted only minutes.
Then the Bolton army disintegrated.
Ramsay stood frozen.
Watching his soldiers fall like wheat before a scythe, he felt something he had never truly experienced before.
Fear.
"Retreat!"
"Retreat!"
He screamed as he seized a horse and fled toward the Dreadfort without a single glance behind him.
The moment their commander ran, the rest of the army collapsed entirely.
Against fleeing infantry, Castle Cerwyn's cavalry was unstoppable.
Cheering wildly, they spurred their horses forward, relentlessly pursuing the routed Bolton soldiers and turning defeat into slaughter.
By the time Robett led the men of Deepwood Motte to finish off the remaining resistance and gather prisoners, the Battle of Winterfell had come to an end.
'Robb...'
Jon's eyes grew moist.
'Did you see? I protected Winterfell too.'
He gazed southward. His eyes crossed mountains and rivers, as though searching for Galon.
'Galon... You have to win.'
'Sansa and I will be waiting for you at Winterfell.'
After several days of hard riding, Galon's army was nearing the Bloody Gate.
As if sensing something far away, he instinctively turned to look north.
"What is it, Galon?"
Lady Mormont urged her horse alongside his.
Galon shook his head.
"It's nothing."
"Pass the order. We increase our pace. We reach the Bloody Gate before nightfall."
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