The Great Hall of Winterfell.
Roose Bolton sat in the seat of honor, his eyes pale as milk as they passed over the freshly delivered letters without the slightest ripple of emotion.
Scouts reported that the forces led by Ser Helman Tallhart, Arnolf Karstark, and Robin Flint had been completely wiped out. Even the three commanders themselves had lost their heads.
All of it had been done by Marlon Manderly.
Lady Lisan Flint of Widow's Watch was on the verge of collapse.
She had lost her husband, and now she had lost her only son and heir as well.
Agony was written plainly across the northern lady's face.
Her voice turned sharp and venomous.
"Marlon Manderly, that bastard from White Harbor! He dared to kill my son! Lord Bolton, wipe out that cursed remnant army! Flay every one of those Manderly rebels alive. Use their skulls as wine cups to honor my Robin!"
Roose Bolton's tone remained as flat as ever.
"My lady, I share your grief. But though the Manderly remnants are few, they are not to be underestimated. They move unpredictably through the North. To march rashly may invite an ambush."
"Father…"
Ramsay, standing nearby, could no longer contain himself. He stepped forward eagerly, his face twisted into an ingratiating smile.
"Jon Snow is dead. He took dozens of arrows. What's left of Marlon Manderly is nothing but a stray dog, dragging along a starving, arrow-starved rabble. What threat could they possibly pose? Let me take the troops. If I unite the lords still at Winterfell, we'll wipe them out completely and end this once and for all!"
Roose Bolton slowly turned his gaze toward his son, his voice unchanged.
"Are you certain Jon Snow is dead?"
Ramsay answered with utter confidence, even a hint of contempt.
"Absolutely, Father. Even if the gods themselves intervened, they couldn't save a man riddled with holes and bled dry. He's well and truly dead."
Roose Bolton fell silent for a moment, weighing the matter.
The North had been bled by successive wars. Every house was stretched thin. Even with fresh levies, the total strength barely reached ten thousand.
But when he saw the near-maddened look in Lady Lisan's eyes, and the shared anger and unease on the faces of the other lords, he knew that if he refused to act, the fragile alliance he had just forged might collapse at once.
At last, he gave a slight nod.
"Very well. Ramsay, you will lead two thousand men from House Bolton, along with whatever forces the other lords can muster, seven thousand in total. Hunt down the Manderly remnants. End this quickly and keep our losses to a minimum."
A grin spread across Ramsay's face.
"As you command, Father. I'll bring you Marlon Manderly's head."
Seven thousand troops marched out of Winterfell in force, following the trail left by Marlon Manderly's remnants as they advanced south.
Ramsay rode at the head, brimming with confidence, already imagining himself presenting Ser Marlon's severed head and earning his father's approval.
After several days of pursuit, they finally caught up with their quarry on a relatively open stretch of the Kingsroad.
Marlon Manderly's army looked as miserable as expected. Barely two thousand men remained. Their armor was battered, their banners crooked, their pace sluggish. They looked utterly incapable of resisting.
"Infantry, advance! Archers, loose! Cavalry, prepare to charge and tear them apart from both flanks!"
Ramsay gave the order without a moment's hesitation.
He brandished his longsword in excitement.
"I'll hang Manderly's skin on the walls of Winterfell."
The well-equipped Bolton cavalry surged forward first, with infantry from the other houses close behind.
Ser Marlon appeared to have been caught off guard. His formation was visibly disordered.
The two armies slammed into each other.
Bolton infantry trudged through the snow and crashed headlong into the hastily formed Manderly shield wall.
Screams erupted instantly.
A Manderly spearman had just yanked his spear free from a Bolton soldier's chest when another spear thrust in from the side, piercing straight through his armpit.
He screamed as he went down, instantly trampled beneath countless boots.
A Bolton warrior swung his two-handed battleaxe, hacking madly at shields until several spears struck him at once. He roared as he fell, still biting down on half of an enemy's ear.
Ramsay watched his army push forward steadily, their advantage growing by the moment, his grin widening with satisfaction.
Just as he had predicted, superiority in numbers, equipment, and morale quickly tipped the balance in the Bolton coalition's favor. Manderly's line was forced back step by step.
Watching from the rear, Ramsay was almost giddy, already imagining how he would torment the captured Ser Marlon.
Then, just as he thought victory was certain—
Woooooo!
A low, unfamiliar horn sounded suddenly from the Bolton coalition's rear flank.
It was not a call known to any house of the North.
Moments later, the ground began to tremble.
A sizeable cavalry force appeared behind the Bolton coalition and charged forward at terrifying speed.
At its head rode a man on a black horse, cloaked in dark colors, a longsword in his hand.
When that unmistakably familiar face came into view, the smile on Ramsay's face froze, twisting into sheer disbelief.
"Jon Snow?!!"
He shrieked.
"Impossible! You were dead! I saw it with my own eyes!"
Jon did not answer. He merely leveled his sword and fixed Ramsay with a gaze blazing with fury.
From the previous battle, he had seized a large number of horses and formed a cavalry unit, deliberately having Ser Marlon draw the enemy out. At last, Ramsay had taken the bait.
The fresh force under Jon's command slammed into the completely unprepared rear of the Bolton coalition like a dagger.
In an instant, the Bolton formation collapsed.
Rear-line soldiers panicked as they realized the enemy was behind them. Order dissolved completely, and the battle shattered into countless small, chaotic melees.
A Bolton warrior had just split a Manderly soldier's skull with his axe when, before he could even catch his breath, a member of the Brotherhood Without Banners rushed in from the side and drove a blade through his mail. He screamed and rolled on the ground.
Elsewhere, a Flint longspearman fought back-to-back with a companion against surrounding foes. An arrow from nowhere pierced his comrade's throat. In the next heartbeat, he lost his footing and was pinned to the ground by several spears thrust at once.
Severed limbs lay scattered across the field, and the groans of the dying rose without end.
"Cavalry, fall back and reinforce! Hold them!"
Ramsay snapped out of his shock and roared in fury.
The tide of battle turned in an instant.
The Bolton coalition, which had been advancing smoothly moments before, now found itself attacked from both front and rear.
Seeing the shift, Marlon Manderly's spirits surged. He rallied his men and pressed the counterattack.
Soldiers on both sides fought to the death along the Kingsroad and the barren lands around it.
Jon's tactics were precise, striking deliberately at the Bolton coalition's weak points and command links, while Ramsay's orders grew frantic and disordered.
...