Though the Bolton coalition still held the advantage in numbers, their formation was in chaos, morale shaken, and losses mounting fast.
The fighting dragged on from dawn into the afternoon. Both sides paid dearly, bodies piling up across the field.
Jon and Marlon managed to hold for a time and even gained a slight edge, but the crushing disparity in numbers soon told. Their men were exhausted, their lines tightening as they were forced inward.
Just as Jon began to consider breaking contact, thunder rolled again in the distance.
This time, the sound was far greater than before.
A new set of banners rose on the horizon.
The flayed man of House Bolton, alongside the banners of House Umber and House Glover.
Roose Bolton had come in person.
After sending Ramsay out, he had returned to his chambers and reconsidered every detail, quickly sensing that something was amiss. Acting at once, he brought with him the reserves from Winterfell and the Dreadfort, along with the last cavalry of Houses Umber and Glover, three thousand men in total.
Their arrival shattered the fragile balance of the battlefield.
With his characteristic calm, Roose Bolton issued orders, and his forces swiftly tightened the noose around Jon and Marlon's battered army.
Jon, Marlon Manderly, Thoros, and fewer than a thousand men were trapped at the center.
The Bolton coalition closed in like an iron wall, spears bristling, arrows falling like rain.
"For the North!"
Jon's hoarse shout rang out as he swung his sword in a final stand.
Ser Marlon fought at his side, while Thoros brandished his burning blade, his red robes and leather armor soaked through with blood.
Around them, their men fell in swathes, like wheat before the scythe.
From the outer ring, Ramsay screamed with manic delight.
"Kill them! Kill Jon Snow! I'll hang his head on the walls of Winterfell!"
Just as Jon and the others stood on the brink of annihilation—
From the southeast came another rumble of hooves.
This time, the sound was so dense it seemed to shake the earth itself.
An army poured over the land.
Half of them were Dothraki roaring warriors, swinging arakh blades and howling as they charged.
The other half were slave soldiers in uniform leather armor, advancing with spears and shields held tight.
At the head of the host rode a young knight in gleaming armor, a gray cloak streaming behind him.
Waymar Royce.
By order of Lo Quen, he had led ten thousand Dothraki roaring warriors and ten thousand elite slave soldiers, arriving in the North just in time.
"For Your Grace! Slaughter the skinners!"
Waymar Royce raised his sword and shouted after taking in the battlefield.
The twenty-thousand-strong army slammed into the already weary Bolton lines like a landslide.
The Dothraki tore into the flanks, their curved blades slicing effortlessly through leather and mail as their horses smashed formations apart.
The slave soldiers advanced in tight ranks, spears thrusting forward, impaling every enemy who stood in their way.
Once again, the battle turned on its head.
Moments earlier, the Bolton coalition had seemed on the verge of victory. Now it began to collapse.
A Dothraki warrior howled in exhilaration, his arakh slitting the throat of a Bolton spearman who tried to turn and flee. Warm blood splashed across his face. He licked his lips and surged forward, eager for his next kill.
Their horses thundered through the disordered infantry, spreading panic and chaos wherever they charged.
The soldiers within the slave phalanxes advanced calmly, shields raised, forming solid shield walls in hundred-man units as they pushed forward.
"Thrust!"
At the slave officer's command, countless spears shot out through the gaps in the shields, skewering and driving back the panicked Northmen in front of them.
Under the ferocious assault led by Waymar, the morale of the Bolton coalition plunged to rock bottom and then collapsed completely.
Men threw down their weapons and fled in wild panic, only to be cut down like straw by Dothraki riders racing after them at full speed.
For the first time, the eternally composed expression on Roose Bolton's face shattered.
He stared at the vast army that seemed to descend from the heavens, watching his own forces crumble like an avalanche, shock filling his eyes.
"Full retreat!"
He tried to regain control, but it was already too late.
Greatjon Umber was surrounded by several Dothraki warriors in the chaos. His immense strength sent more than a few of them flying, but in the end a spear driven in from behind pierced his chest, and he fell with a furious roar.
Galbart Glover attempted to rally resistance, only to be smashed apart by a charge personally led by Waymar Royce. He himself was cut down in the press of blades.
Roose Bolton tried to escape under the desperate protection of his guards, but a crossbow bolt fired by a slave soldier struck his shoulder, throwing him from his horse. He was quickly swallowed by the surging tide of men.
Seeing the situation collapse, Ramsay Bolton had already wheeled his horse around and fled madly toward Winterfell.
Jon Snow watched the sudden reversal, watched his enemies break and die, and vaulted onto his horse at once.
"Pursue them! Leave none alive!"
Jon rode at the front, deliberately hunting down the fleeing nobles.
Countless lords were cut from their saddles by his blade.
At last, he found Roose Bolton, abandoned by his guards and gravely wounded.
Roose lifted his head and looked at Jon approaching like death itself. In those milk-pale eyes, a flicker of fear finally appeared, only to be replaced by a calm acceptance.
"Jon Snow… you finally—"
Jon did not let him finish.
The sword fell, and Roose Bolton's head rolled across the ground, that same calm still frozen on his face.
Jon seized the head and hung it beside his saddle.
Last was Ramsay Bolton.
He did not get far before Dothraki warriors surrounded him, dragged him from his horse, and hauled him before Jon like a dead dog.
Jon looked at the man who had tortured the false Arya and brought about his own death. There was no mercy in his eyes.
He did not kill him at once.
...
Back in Winterfell, before the halls where Stark banners had once flown, Jon ordered Ramsay stripped naked and bound to the rack.
Jon pressed a dagger to Ramsay's throat and asked coldly,
"Who was that girl?!"
Ramsay laughed weakly.
"Beth Cassel. Arya Stark was never in my hands, so I used her as a stand-in…"
Jon's eyes turned red.
Beth Cassel had lived in Winterfell for many years, growing up alongside him. She was family.
"For Beth. For Robb. For Lady Catelyn. For everyone the Boltons murdered."
Jon's voice was cold as iron.
He personally took up a barbed leather whip and lashed Ramsay again and again.
At first, Ramsay spat venomous curses. Soon they became shrill screams and begging, until only unconscious groans remained.
His flesh was torn open, blood and meat mangled together, no longer even resembling a man.
...
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