Beneath the walls of Winterfell, the howling wind and driving snow couldn't mask the dull, wet thud of steel biting into flesh.
Ramsay Bolton's madness lasted less than fifteen minutes.
When his prized flaying knife was caught dead in the shield of a grizzly Umber veteran, and a longsword followed up by driving into his horse's neck, the mania in his eyes was instantly replaced by sheer, primal terror.
He tumbled ungracefully from his dying mount, rolling several times through the freezing, bloody mud before coming to a stop.
"Protect me! Get in there, you fuckers! Protect me!"
He screeched like a cat with its tail stepped on, scrabbling backward on all fours, trying to scurry back into the safety of his own ranks.
The Dreadfort soldiers around him looked on with a mix of confusion and despair.
What were they seeing?
The man who had just promised them land, women, and the title of "Future King in the North"—the moment he faced real steel, he pissed his breeches and ran like a coward?
And they were supposed to fight and die against a superior, fresh Northern army for this man's ambition?
Morale shattered in an instant.
Thwack!
A Dreadfort soldier hesitated, lifting his weapon unsure whether to fight or yield, only to have a spear punch clean through his chest.
The army led personally by Ned Stark gave no time for second thoughts.
This was vengeance. This was judgment.
"Kill every man who doesn't yield!"
Ned's command was cold and brutal.
He didn't lead the charge himself. instead, he stood behind the lines, watching the one-sided slaughter with icy detachment. Beside him, his personal guard threw captured Flayed Man banners into the mud, trampling them into the filth with their horses' hooves.
Ramsay watched as Ned's soldiers surged forward like a tide, getting closer and closer. His soul nearly left his body in fright.
He grabbed the collar of a young soldier next to him and shoved the boy violently forward.
"Hold them! Hold them back!"
The boy didn't even have time to scream before three or four swords pierced him at once.
Ramsay used the distraction to scramble behind a supply wagon. His eyes darted around like a trapped rat, frantically searching for any escape route.
Just as he thought he might survive another moment, a dark shadow burst from the chaotic melee on the flank with unnatural speed, diving straight for the wagon where he hid.
It was a woman.
She wore ill-fitting leather armor, clutching two blood-slicked daggers, her messy black hair whipping in the wind. Her face was smeared with gore and madness, but her eyes were locked onto Ramsay.
"Run!"
Her voice was hoarse, filled with insanity and devotion.
She didn't look at Ramsay. Like a mother wolf protecting her pup, she threw herself in front of the wagon, using her slender body to block the path of several charging Stark soldiers.
It was Myranda.
The daughter of the Dreadfort's kennel master. Ramsay's most loyal—and most twisted—plaything.
She had no real skill at arms. Her strikes were clumsy and wild. But there was no fear in her eyes, only a resolve to burn together.
She threw her body against their shields, bit at their sword arms, and stabbed frantically at any gap in their armor with her daggers.
One Stark soldier, caught off guard, took a blade through the leather of his neck, blood spraying out. But a second later, a warhammer smashed into her.
CRACK!
Myranda's body shuddered violently.
Blood poured from her mouth, yet she stood her ground, refusing to take a single step back. Her eyes, already beginning to glaze over, stayed fixed on Ramsay. Her lips moved, trying to form words.
But only a faint, breathless rasp came out.
Ned Stark watched quietly from a distance.
His brow furrowed slightly.
What is this woman to Ramsay?
"Take them both alive," Ned ordered the herald beside him.
He had a gut feeling that these two might be more useful breathing than dead.
The battle ended quickly.
Crushed by superior force and broken morale, the remaining Dreadfort soldiers threw down their weapons. They knelt in the snow, hands raised high, choosing surrender.
Ramsay Bolton was dragged out from under the wagon by two massive Umber soldiers. Covered in filth, he looked like a wild dog with a broken spine, yet he was still spitting curses.
"Get your hands off me! You mongrels! My father is Roose Bolton!"
"If you touch me, he'll flay the skin off every last one of you!"
SMACK!
A soldier stepped up and delivered a backhand so hard it slapped the rest of Ramsay's sentence back down his throat.
"Your father?"
The soldier grabbed Ramsay by the hair and slammed his face into the freezing snow.
"I'm your daddy now, boy."
...
Before the walls of Winterfell, three thousand Dreadfort soldiers were herded like sheep to the slaughter onto a wide, open patch of snow.
They were surrounded by Stark soldiers with drawn steel.
Ned Stark rode his horse slowly to the front of the group. He removed his helm, his rugged face looking exceptionally grim under the grey sky.
"By the ancient laws of the North," Ned began, his voice carrying over the wind. "The only punishment for traitors is the headsman's block."
The color drained from the faces of the surrendered men. Their bodies began to shake uncontrollably. Some were already regretting not fighting to the death.
A few even tightened their muscles, thinking of rushing the guards—better to die taking one with them than be executed like livestock.
"However," Ned's tone shifted.
"You are also sons of the North."
"You were deceived by this bastard, Ramsay Bolton."
"Lord Lynn once told me that the true enemy is the highborn lords who sit in warm castles inciting war, not the soldiers who bleed on the battlefield."
"So, I have decided to give you a chance."
Ned's gaze swept over the faces below, seeing the fear turn to a glimmer of hope.
"Lay down all your weapons. Remove your armor. Leave your hatred here."
"I will take you into custody. When this war is over, I will judge your crimes personally."
" The guilty will be punished. The innocent may go home."
These words were like a song from the Seven Heavens. The despairing soldiers saw a path to life.
Without hesitation, they began stripping off their armor and tossing their weapons far away. Faced with death, resistance seemed pointless.
Ned watched it all quietly, his eyes betraying no emotion.
He had changed.
During his time with Lynn, he had learned the most important lesson:
Unnecessary mercy to the enemy is the cruelest betrayal of your own people.
Honor was important, but the survival of his family and the peace of the North were worth far more than empty creeds.
If using a dishonorable tactic meant eliminating three thousand potential threats without losing a single one of his own men...
Then he would bear that sin.
Soon, three thousand Dreadfort soldiers were stripped down to their tunics and breeches. They were then herded into a massive trench that had been dug outside Winterfell's walls.
The trench was deep, the earth rising to their chests.
Huddled together, shivering in the biting wind, the soldiers wore expressions of relief, believing they had survived the worst.
Ned rode to the edge of the pit and looked down at them.
"My Lord, when can we come out?" a bold soldier asked, looking up.
Ned didn't answer.
He simply raised his hand and gave the final, most ruthless order to the archers who had been waiting in position behind him.
"Loose."
"What?!"
The soldiers in the pit froze. They couldn't believe their ears.
Their answer was a sky blackened by arrows.
Thwip-thwip-thwip—!
The sickening sound of arrows cutting through the air filled the silence. Like the scythe of the Stranger, the volley mercilessly harvested the unarmed lives below.
Screams, curses, and pleas for mercy erupted instantly.
But nothing stopped the slaughter.
One volley was followed by a second, then a third...
Until no one in the pit was left standing, until the snow and dirt at the bottom were turned into a dark red sludge, Ned slowly lowered his hand.
"Fill it in."
Two cold words brought a bloody end to the betrayal.
...
The Riverlands, inside a hidden forest.
> [Killed Dreadfort Soldier, Experience +3]
> [Killed Dreadfort Soldier, Experience +3]
> ...
> [Killed Dreadfort Knight, Experience +10]
> [Total Experience Gained: +9,215]
> [Current Experience: 26,217.2]
A string of system notifications scrolled past Lynn's eyes.
The corners of his mouth curled into a satisfied smile.