The battle was over in less than ten minutes. Every single one of Ramsay's soldiers was now a prisoner of House East.
From the battlements, Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik looked out at the tens of thousands of soldiers commanded by Lord Jason, their hearts filled with overwhelming relief and joy at the sight of such formidable strength.
Creaak—
The main gates of Winterfell swung open. Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik, flanking a determined Bran, walked out to greet their saviors.
Along the way, Jon and Bran saw each other. The two brothers, who had not met since parting in the Riverlands months ago, rushed into a heartfelt embrace.
"Jon! Oh, Jon, it's so good you're here!" Bran, who had been trying so hard to be strong, finally broke. He clung to his older brother, the fear and horror of the past few days pouring out of him in a flood of tears.
Jon held his little brother tightly, his heart aching for the suffering Bran had endured. "It's alright, Bran. Don't be afraid. Lord Jason is here to help our family. With him here, I promise no one will ever hurt you again."
After a few moments of comfort from Jon, Bran's sobs subsided. He wiped his eyes and then saw Lord Jason walking toward them. A faint blush of embarrassment appeared on his pale, handsome face.
"Bran, you did well," Jason said, his voice warm. He bent down and gave the boy a brief hug, patting his thin shoulder. "If you hadn't held Winterfell for these last two days, my army and I might not have arrived in time."
He smiled encouragingly. "It seems you've grown up. You're a true man now."
"Thank you, Lord Jason," Bran said, looking up at him with reverence and gratitude. "If you hadn't brought your army to help us, Winterfell would have fallen to the Boltons."
"Lord Jason, please, come inside the castle," Maester Luwin invited, gesturing for everyone to enter.
Inside Winterfell, the servants cheered, their faces shining with relief. The enemy was defeated, and they no longer had to fear being slaughtered by Bolton men. A celebratory luncheon was quickly arranged in the Great Hall. To thank Lord Jason for rescuing them, the Starks brought out the last of the wine and meat from their storehouses to feast the soldiers of House East.
While a cheerful meal was underway in the hall, the Starks' enemy, Ramsay Bolton, was unceremoniously thrown into the dungeons.
Ramsay was dragged by two soldiers and hurled into a cell, landing hard on the damp stone floor.
In the cell next to his, Theon Greyjoy stirred. He had been imprisoned for a long time. Seeing the newcomer, he immediately guessed who it was: Ramsay Bolton, the bastard who had led the attack on Winterfell. Theon, who should have been Ramsay's enemy, was now his fellow inmate.
He got up from the corner and walked to the bars, looking at the man who had been thrown into the next cell like a dead dog. Ramsay was covered in bruises, and half of his face was swollen into a purple mess.
"The Bolton bastard, Ramsay?" Theon asked, his eyes full of contempt. The word "bastard" made him think of Jon Snow, that lucky fool who always seemed to land on his feet.
"Hhh... hhh..." Ramsay breathed, sucking in air through his teeth. He heard the voice and pushed himself up, looking through the dim torchlight at Theon in the next cell.
A habitual smirk played on Theon's lips as he looked down on Ramsay. "I heard your traitor father, Roose Bolton, conspired with the Freys and Lannisters to murder Robb and the northern lords. The Boltons wanted to take Winterfell, to replace the Starks. But you didn't expect to be defeated by Jason East's army, did you? And now you're a prisoner yourself. How does it feel, you lowly bastard?"
At the end, Theon's face twisted with hatred, though he also felt a spark of dark satisfaction. Since his own failed attack on Winterfell, he had been locked away. At first, he was terrified, but Lady Catelyn and Bran had shown him mercy for the sake of their past friendship. They hadn't tortured him, and the food wasn't bad.
But then he'd heard the news about Robb. He had been heartbroken. He had imagined Robb returning to Winterfell and, remembering their decade of friendship, forgiving him for his mistake. He would be released and become Robb's right-hand man again. Theon swore to himself that he would have been truly loyal this time. He would never betray his friend again, no matter what his father promised.
But all he got was news of Robb's death. All his plans, all his hopes, had turned to ash. He blamed the Freys and the Boltons. They had killed Robb. They had ruined his chance to be saved.
"It's all your fault!" Theon gritted his teeth, his voice a low roar as he stared at the pathetic figure on the floor. "Your damned Bolton family, you damned bastard! You killed Robb, and you ruined everything for me!"
"Hah... haha..." Ramsay coughed, a wheezing laugh escaping his broken lips. "You must be that idiot, Theon Greyjoy."
One of Ramsay's eyes was swollen shut, but the other squinted at Theon with undisguised mockery. "And what are you? Didn't you betray the Starks, too? And you got caught. Your timid pirate friends didn't even dare show their faces; they just ran back to the sea. You're all just useless cowards."
The insult hit its mark. Theon's face flushed with fury. "You shut your mouth, you bastard! How dare you laugh at me? You're nothing! Just watch, your leech-lord father will be defeated by Jason East, too! The Starks will behead you both, and the Dreadfort will fall to House East! The Boltons are finished! Hahaha, you're finished!"
Hearing Theon's wild, smug laughter, Ramsay felt a sharp pain in his side, and it wasn't from his injuries. It was pure rage.
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