The mud had already swallowed most of the Stark banners when Ramsay's final horn sounded.
Jon's last desperate charge broke against a fresh line of Bolton spearmen. The bodies were piled so high that living men had to climb corpses to keep fighting. Tormund's throat was opened by a flail. Davos's small band of loyal men were cut down trying to reach their lord. Wun Wun fell with thirty arrows in his chest and neck, roaring until the end.
And then it was just Jon.
He stood knee-deep in red slush, Longclaw hanging loose in a numb hand, staring at the circle of Bolton riders closing in. His breath came in wet, broken gasps. Somewhere behind him he heard Sansa scream his name once sharp, animal before the sound was swallowed by the triumphant howls of the winning side.
Ramsay Bolton rode forward at a slow, deliberate walk. His pale face was streaked with other men's blood; his smile looked almost tender.
"You fought well, bastard," he said, voice carrying over the dying moans. "Almost made me proud to share a father." Jon tried to raise Longclaw. His arm shook. Ramsay leaned down from the saddle and simply kicked the blade out of his hand. It clattered into the gore.
Two Bolton men-at-arms dragged Jon forward by the hair and forced him to his knees. Ramsay dismounted, crouched until their eyes were level. "I'm going to give your sister back her home," he said softly. "And then I'm going to show her exactly what happens when little birds fly back to broken nests."
He stood, turned to his captains.
"Bind him. Keep him breathing. I want him awake for the best parts."
Winterfell – three days later
The great hall smelled of smoke, spilled wine, and fresh blood.
Sansa sat on the high seat her father's seat, Robb's seat dressed in a gown of Bolton pink and grey. A thin silver chain ran from the delicate collar around her throat to Ramsay's left wrist. Every time he moved his hand the chain pulled; every time it pulled her head dipped a fraction.
Jon was brought in on his knees, wrists manacled behind him, fresh welts crisscrossing his bare back and chest. His dark hair hung in filthy ropes over his face. He was shivering—not from cold, but from the knowledge of what came next.
Ramsay stood, tugged the chain lightly. Sansa rose without hesitation, eyes fixed on the floor.
"Look at him," Ramsay said. She lifted her gaze. For one heartbeat something alive flickered behind the glassy mask grief, rage, love then it was gone again. Ramsay stepped behind Jon, grabbed a fistful of black hair and forced his head up.
"Tell your sister how sorry you are," he said pleasantly. Jon's voice was ruined. "Sansa…"
"Tell her you failed her. Tell her you let every last loyal man die because you were too weak to win."
Jon's cracked lips moved. No sound came. Ramsay sighed theatrically, then drove a knee into Jon's kidney. Jon folded with a choked grunt. "I'll help," Ramsay said. He leaned close to Jon's ear. "Repeat after me. 'I am a traitorous bastard. I deserve to watch.'"
Jon stayed silent. Ramsay looked at Sansa. "He's being difficult. Shall we remind him what silence costs?" Sansa's voice was barely a whisper. "Please don't." "Then make him speak."
She stepped forward slow, mechanical until she stood directly in front of Jon. Her hands shook as she reached out and cupped his battered face. "Jon," she said, so quiet only he could hear. "Please. Just say it. Let it be over."
His eyes met hers. Something inside him cracked wide open. "I failed you," he rasped. "I let them die. I deserve… to watch."Ramsey smiled like a man who had just won a second kingdom.
"Good boy."