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10. The Exchange of Words
🕑 Added 2025-02-06 17:47:55 +0000 UTC*Jon Snow’s POV*
I finally managed to compose myself after what was, without a doubt, one of the best laughs I’d had in a long while. But as I looked around, I was met with a mix of exasperated and impatient faces, all silently asking the same thing—Are you done? Can we get back to business now?
Well, all except Manderly. His face was flushed, whether, from anger or embarrassment, I couldn’t quite tell.
“There was nothing funny about what I said, Lord Snow,” he stated, his tone edged with irritation.
I leveled him with a calm but firm gaze. “If you believe Ramsay is less of a threat than Roose, then that in itself is amusing, Lord Manderly. You’d do well not to trust every rumor you hear.”
Manderly let out a huff, turning his attention toward Tormund, who was casually cleaning his teeth with a knife. Noticing the Lord’s gaze, Tormund grinned, showing just enough teeth to make the moment slightly uncomfortable.
Shaking my head, I continued, “Since you insist on meeting Ramsay before any battle takes place, I will honor your request. But you will not be coming with us.”
Before he could protest, I raised a hand. “And before you ask why, I’ll tell you—your army’s movements have not yet reached Ramsay’s ears. I intend to keep it that way.”
Davos, ever the seasoned strategist, gave a slight nod of understanding. He had served under one of the best commanders this world had ever known in the last few years; he understood the value of keeping an advantage. Lyanna Mormont, sitting straight-backed and unwavering, nodded in approval as well. Even Sansa, who had looked weary of this conversation, seemed pleased with my reasoning.
Manderly, however, remained unconvinced. “Why? There’s no need for secrecy. As I said, we outnumber Bolton’s forces.”
I held back a sigh. He thinks numbers alone decide the battle. In truth, he was more merchant than lord, good at trade and accounts, but blind to the weight of true warfare.
“My lord, I’ve already given you more than you think. Against my own better judgment, I’ve agreed to meet with the very man who tormented both my sister and my brother—your king, as you yourself so proudly declared.” My voice took on a sharper edge as I leaned forward. “Do not ask more of me than you already have. I was raised to be kind and honorable by my father, Eddard Stark, but even my kindness has limits.”
Sansa’s lips curled into the faintest trace of a smile when Manderly finally fell silent, absorbing my words.
I turned to Davos. “Ser Davos, I trust you to lead our men to the designated camp. Ensure no infighting breaks out along the way.”
Feeling my gaze on him, Davos gave a solemn nod. “You have my word.”
Satisfied, I turned to Sansa and Lyanna. “I know neither of you is truly tired from your journey, but take an hour to freshen up and rest before we ride out.”
They both gave small nods of thanks and rose from their seats. I stood with them, sparing a glance at Manderly as he gestured for his men to retrieve the oversized chair he had brought with him.
Shaking my head, I left the room.
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"Where is he? We should just return to the camp," Sansa said with an impatient tone. Lyanna Mormont, Tormund Giantsbane, Sansa, and I were waiting for Ramsay on the field where the battle had been fought. We had just arrived, and Sansa had already tried to lead us back twice. I looked toward the white expanse of snow covering the land and waited for Ramsay to arrive, knowing he was almost here with the Karstark and Umber lords, with Luna's help.
We didn't have to wait long. Horses with riders came into view after a few minutes and stopped at a respectful distance from us. Ramsay was looking at us with an arrogant smirk, his gaze constantly drifting to Sansa as we waited for someone to start the conversation. Lord Karstark and Lord Umber showed no outward reaction, but I could sense the hidden tension in their postures.
"My beloved wife," Ramsay said, smiling, "I've missed you terribly." He then turned his gaze toward me. “Thank you for returning Lady Bolton to me. Now, before everyone kneels and acknowledges me as the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, surrender your army. Swear fealty, and I will graciously pardon you for deserting the Night’s Watch. The treasonous lords who betrayed my house may also be forgiven.”
Lyanna Mormont scoffed, spitting on the ground in response.
I smiled and turned to Karstark. "I don't know whether to be surprised that a man of bastard origin is claiming to be Lord of the North, or that two ancient houses—one of which is related to House Stark—are following him like dogs." I turned to Ramsay. "You are a bastard; nothing will change that. One bastard legitimizing another is something I, or the lords behind me, will not accept. House Bolton is extinct, and soon I will burn the Dreadfort to the ground to serve as an example of the fate that will befall those who rise against House Stark."
Ramsay’s jaw tightened. “It seems you’ve forgotten your own origins in reminding me of mine,” he said through gritted teeth. “And to burn the Dreadfort, you’ll need to win a war. You don’t have the numbers. You have wildlings and a few loyalists—nothing compared to my army. The men of the North will not follow you over me.” He sneered. “Why lead them to slaughter? Surrender, and I will give you the chance to cross the Wall with your wildling lovers.”
Tormund bristled at his words, barely restraining his rage.
"Aye, you're right. Why did we lead our men to death? Let us settle this the old way: you against me." I smirked smugly, baiting him with my words. This was something I had already decided not to change, as Jon had chosen his words carefully in the show. Karstark glanced at Ramsay, wondering if he would accept my proposal, but Ramsay was too shrewd to agree. He believed he had more men in his army than I did.
"I keep hearing stories about you bastard. The people of North talk about you as you're the greatest swordsman to ever walk. Maybe you're that good, maybe not. I don't if I beat you but I know my army will beat yours. I have six thousand men..." I cut him off before he could babble more lies, "Five or even not even that much. You seem to forget the one thousand men that my men and I slaughtered that you sent to chase after us when I rescued my brother from right under your nose. And those five or four thousand men would fight for you when they hear you wouldn't fight for them?." I relished every word that I spoke as faces which was indifferent up until now turned to anger and disappointment.
"Oh! They would fight for me, considering they are battling the Wildlings army that you've brought with you," Ramsay replied smugly, his earlier expression of anger vanished. He glanced at Lord Umber, who pulled out Shaggydog's head, hidden under his cloak and tied to the horse's saddle, and tossed it in our direction.
"Lord Smalljon Umber, I have something for you as well," I said, pulling out a letter bearing the seal of House Umber, penned by the Maester of Last Hearth. Tormund took the initiative, meeting Lord Umber halfway to hand over the letter. The Lord of Last Hearth's face turned crimson with rage as he read the letter, and he glared at me with such anger that I feared he might attack.
"Do you think I would believe your lies..." He fell silent when I threw the head of the Master-at-Arms he had assigned to protect Last Hearth during his absence toward him. "You bastard! First, you bring the Wildlings to our lands and let them rampage through unprotected keeps. Do you have any honor at all? Eddard Stark would be turning in his grave!" He spat at my horse's feet, and I merely smirked in response.
"Do you think the Starks ruled the unforgiving lands of the North by being honorable? Before the Targaryens took over the Seven Kingdoms, the Starks of old were known for their ruthlessness against their enemies. I intend to follow in their footsteps and remind the rebel houses why the Starks have ruled these lands for thousands of years—not because of kindness or honor, which are reserved for allies, but because they dealt with those who forgot their place and performed the treasons acts of handing over their rightful king to traitors." My voice dripped with anger. Lord Umber merely scoffed and returned to his place, his face a mix of worry, doubt, and frustration.
"Lord Karstark, I present you with a choice. Half of the men who have captured Last Hearth are making their way toward Karhold as we speak. Unlike Lord Umber, who brought his heir and son here, your sister Alys Karstark remains there. I do not wish to see the cadet branch of House Stark extinguished simply because you are still angry about Robb killing your father. That mistake has already cost my house more than yours has suffered. You are the only surviving male from House Karstark. One arrow or a stroke of luck could make your house the only name remembered in history. I am not asking you to fight for me or House Stark; I merely request that you return to Karhold with your men. I swear to you, in my brother's name, that neither you nor your men will face any threat from me or mine. Consider this: is it worth risking the survival of your house by fighting alongside the bastard of House Bolton? These are things you should think about."
I said this to Harald Karstark, who looked troubled after hearing my words.
I know that Ramsay would never allow him to leave, but this could sow discord among them, and if I'm fortunate, it could lead to Lord Karstark's death, which I could exploit. Ramsay's facial expression suggests he is already considering eliminating Harald if he attempts to return to Karhold.
"Now, I believe we are done here," I said before urging my horse to return to the camp.
"Sleep well, Ramsay. You’re going to die soon enough," were the last words I heard from Sansa before I felt horse hooves behind me as others joined me to head back to the camp.
"Do you think Karstark will accept your offer?" Lyanna asked, her curiosity and doubt evident in her eyes.
"What would you choose if you were in his position—revenge or the survival of your ancient house? We should also consider how Ramsay will react if Karstark tries to lead his men back to Karhold," I replied, pondering how Ramsay might handle the situation.
Sansa’s voice was quiet but sure. “It doesn’t matter. Ramsay won’t let him leave. He’ll kill him before he reaches his men.”
Her words settled over me, and I couldn’t help but agree. Now, the only question was—how would I turn that to my advantage?
But before that, I need to send Melisandre to Dragonstone to meet Daenerys and recount the events she has witnessed in the North. That should be enough to pique Daenerys' interest in Jon Snow and prompt her to summon me to Dragonstone. The sooner this happens, the better—arming our entire army with dragon glass weapons will require a significant supply, and securing it early will be crucial.
