The battle for Winterfell had raged for two bloody days. On the walls, most of the Stark soldiers were dead or wounded. Morale had collapsed. They were on the verge of being overrun.
Ser Rodrik's white beard was stained with blood, and his arms and chest were covered in wounds. He and a small group of guards rushed from one section of the wall to another, plugging gaps in the defense. If not for his tireless efforts, the castle would have fallen yesterday.
Inside, Sansa clutched Rickon, and they shivered in a locked room, listening to the sounds of slaughter outside.
Bran stayed with Maester Luwin, helping the servants tend to the wounded. He had vomited several times at the sight of the bloody, gaping wounds, but he refused to leave. Maester Luwin urged him to go rest, but Bran shook his head, his face pale as a ghost. He insisted on staying, comforting the injured men and praying that the defenders on the walls could hold out a little longer.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Suddenly, a new sound cut through the chaos—the rhythmic, pounding footsteps of thousands of men marching in perfect unison. The very earth seemed to shake with their advance. On the walls, the sounds of fighting slowly died down, replaced by the growing thunder of the approaching army.
"What's happening? What is that sound?" Bran's eyes widened as he looked at Maester Luwin with a mix of confusion and fear.
Maester Luwin told two guards to stay with Bran, then ran toward the battlements to see for himself.
Outside the castle, Ramsay Bolton watched his men swarm over the walls. He was moments away from taking Winterfell. A triumphant, cruel smile spread across his pale face, but it was cut short by the pounding sound from behind him.
He turned in his saddle, and the smile on his face froze. His eyes went wide with shock.
In the distance, thousands of soldiers clad in black stab-proof suits were advancing in tight formations. They held strange weapons and had already formed a massive ring around his army, closing in from all sides.
"House East..." Ramsay breathed, recognizing the banners flying among the strange army. He knew them from the merchants who sold their unique goods across the North. "No, it's impossible! Why would Jason East bring an army to Winterfell?"
He stared as the army of House East completely encircled his men at the base of the castle walls. The soldiers in the front ranks raised the black muzzles of their weapons. Though Ramsay didn't know what they were, the sight of thousands of them pointed directly at him sent a tremor of fear through his body.
A rider emerged from the army's ranks, surrounded by guards. It was Jon Snow.
"Ramsay Bolton!" Jon's voice was cold, and his eyes burned with hatred as he stared at the son of his family's betrayer. "Surrender now! You are surrounded!"
If not for the desire to avoid needless casualties, Jon knew a single command was all it would take. One volley from the men behind him, and most of Ramsay's army would cease to exist.
Surrounded by tens of thousands of enemy soldiers, the remaining sixteen hundred men of the Dreadfort grew pale. Their weapons felt heavy in their trembling hands, and their will to fight vanished completely.
Ramsay looked at Jon Snow—another bastard, just like him, yet this one was respected, knighted, and a commander for the Earl of Starfire City. He was filled with a jealous rage, but he knew the situation was hopeless. He swallowed hard, his cunning eyes darting back and forth.
He turned and shouted, "Where is Lord Jason East? I want to see Lord Jason!"
Jon wanted nothing more than to charge forward and cut off his head, but he had to obey Lord Jason's orders. On the battlefield, no one disobeyed an order. He glanced back toward the center of the army, where Lord Jason and Qyburn were watching on horseback, protected by a heavy guard.
Jason raised his binoculars, bringing Ramsay Bolton's pale, sinister face into sharp focus. He felt a deep disgust for this man, whose cruelty in the stories he knew was legendary. He had no interest in speaking with him.
"Tell him to surrender immediately," Jason said coolly to a nearby messenger.
Jon received the order. He raised his hand, and the soldiers in the front three ranks of the formation knelt, leveling their flintlock rifles. The ranks behind them stood ready, their own weapons loaded.
"Surrender or die! Make your choice, Ramsay!" Jon yelled.
Ramsay glanced at the strange weapons, which radiated a feeling of immense danger. He gripped his reins, his knuckles white with fury. He had been so close. If Jason East hadn't appeared, Winterfell would be his. Now, it was all over. He couldn't believe this foreign earl had secretly raised such a massive army. The rumors about his incredible wealth were clearly true.
Taking a deep breath, Ramsay refused to be captured so easily. "Let Lord Jason come here! I will surrender to him, not to a bastard like you!"
Jon's face remained a cold mask. He stared at Ramsay for a moment, then brought his raised hand down sharply. "Shoot!"
Hundreds of flintlocks fired as one. A deafening crack echoed across the field. Before the terrified eyes of the Dreadfort soldiers, the entire front rank of Ramsay's men screamed and collapsed, their leather armor torn apart by a storm of lead. Blood gushed from dozens of ragged holes in their bodies.
Ramsay sat frozen on his horse, stunned by the noise, the smoke, and the terrifying power of the weapons. The roar of the guns was still ringing in his ears when Jon Snow drew his longsword and led the cavalry in a charge.
"Surrender and you will live! Drop your weapons and kneel!"
The Dreadfort soldiers, already broken by the volley, needed no further encouragement. They threw their weapons to the ground and dropped to their knees, hands in the air. A few who stood frozen in shock were cut down by the charging cavalry.
On the walls of Winterfell, a blood-soaked Ser Rodrik and a stunned Maester Luwin watched as the entire Bolton army surrendered in an instant.
Jon reached Ramsay and, with a sweep of his sword, knocked him from his horse. Ramsay hit the ground hard, his face swelling and blood pouring from his mouth. He screamed in a mixture of pain and impotent rage.
Soldiers from House East rushed forward and violently hauled him to his feet, binding his hands with rope. Nearby, Bud and Kent directed their men to do the same to the rest of the captured Dreadfort soldiers, tying them together in long lines.
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