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[Kill The Boy] Chapter 28: The Kinslayer's Jest
🕑 Added 2025-07-19 02:35:47 +0000 UTCDisclaimer: This is a work of fiction and all rights for character, plots and settings belong to GRRM. I have no ownership.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed this chapter and please leave a comment if you did! :)
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Year 300 AC
Moat Cailin, The North
The Vale's column stretched for miles along the mountain road, twenty thousand knights and men-at-arms winding through the fog like a steel serpent. Sansa pulled her fur cloak tighter against the bitter wind, her breath misting in the morning air as she rode beside Bronze Yohn. The rhythmic clatter of hooves on stone echoed off the canyon walls, punctuated by the creak of wagon wheels and the occasional whinny of a destrier.
Moat Cailin's towers emerged from the mist like broken teeth, and Sansa's hands tightened on her reins. The ancient fortress should have been crawling with Bolton men, archers on every wall, the causeway fortified against assault. Instead, she saw only empty battlements and a handful of figures scurrying along the walls like beetles.
"Strange," Bronze Yohn muttered, his weathered face creasing with suspicion. "Where are they?"
Sansa shared his unease. The Boltons knew they were coming—an army as large as their couldn't have gone unnoticed. This skeleton garrison made no sense unless...
"It's a trap," Lord Hunter declared, riding up on Sansa's left. "They're hiding in the towers, waiting to rain arrows down on us."
"With what men?" Bronze Yohn gestured at the pitiful defenses. "I count maybe two dozen on the walls. My grandson could take this castle with his toddler cousins."
The column halted, horses stamping and snorting in the cold. Sansa watched the causeway, her mind racing through possibilities. Roose Bolton was too cunning to simply abandon the Neck's greatest defense. Unless he had no choice.
"Send a herald," she said, her voice cutting through the lords' debate. "Demand their surrender. If it's a trap, we'll know soon enough."
Bronze Yohn nodded approvingly and dispatched Ser Andar Royce with a white banner. They watched the young knight ride forward, his destrier's hooves splashing through the brackish water that pooled along the causeway. The gates opened before he even reached them, and a Bolton sergeant emerged, looking haggard and frightened.
The parley was brief. Ser Andar returned at a gallop, his face flushed with excitement. "My lords, my lady—they yield. The sergeant says Lord Bolton recalled all but a token force to Winterfell a sennight ago. These men were left to delay us, nothing more."
"Delay us from what?" Lord Belmore asked, but Sansa couldn't understand why the Boltons would risk loosing Moat Cailin to outsiders again.
Within the hour, Moat Cailin was theirs. The great hall stank of fear-sweat and desperation, the Bolton garrison huddled together like sheep awaiting slaughter. Sansa stood before the moss-covered throne—if the ancient seat could even be called that—while the Vale lords filed in around her.
"Secure the prisoners," Bronze Yohn commanded. "Post our own men on the walls. I want scouts ranging north immediately."
"And search the castellan's chambers," Sansa added. "Every scrap of parchment, every raven's message. I want to know what's happening in the North."
The Bolton sergeant, a grizzled man with a salt-and-pepper beard, was dragged before them. He dropped to his knees, trembling. "Mercy, m'lords. We were only following orders."
"Whose orders?" Sansa kept her voice cold, channeling the steel she'd learned from Cersei. "Roose Bolton's? His bastard's?"
"Lord Roose, m'lady. Said to hold as long as we could, then yield if pressed. Said the real fight would be at Winterfell."
Lord Hunter spat. "Coward's strategy. Abandon the Neck to preserve his own skin."
"Or a practical one," Bronze Yohn said thoughtfully. "He knows he can't hold both Moat Cailin and Winterfell. Better to concentrate his forces where they'll do the most good."
Sansa turned to the sergeant. "What news from the North? What of the other houses?"
The man licked his cracked lips. "War, m'lady. Proper war. The Glovers have declared for the Starks. The mountain clans are raiding our supply lines. And..." He hesitated.
"Speak," Bronze Yohn growled.
The sergeant's voice dropped to a whisper. "Jon Snow. The bastard of Winterfell. He's left the Wall with an army—wildlings, Baratheon men, even some of our own northern lords who've turned cloak."
Sansa's heart leaped, though she kept her face impassive. Jon. Her bastard brother—no, her brother, was supposed to be defending against a wildling invasion according to what she'd overheard Littlefinger whispering to his whores. But blood was blood, and he was fighting for their home.
"Wildlings south of the Wall?" Lord Redfort's voice dripped disgust. "What madness is this?"
"The madness of necessity," Bronze Yohn said. "The boy saw himself surrounded by enemies. Why not make one of those enemies your ally."
Several lords scoffed, but Sansa noticed others exchanging uneasy glances.
A commotion at the door interrupted the debate. Ser Andar Royce entered, clutching a leather portfolio. "My lady, we found these in the castellan's solar. Letters, my lady. Recent ones."
Sansa took the portfolio, her fingers steady despite her racing pulse. The first letter bore Roose Bolton's seal, the flayed man pink on white. She read aloud:
"Hold Moat Cailin until the bastard shows himself. When the Vale marches, yield if you must. Every day you delay them is another day we have to prepare. The North bleeds, but we will cauterize the wound. Winterfell will not fall."
"He's afraid," Lord Hunter mused. "He's more afraid of the bastard than us."
"As he should be, Jon learned alongside Robb…" she said, unfolding the next letter. This one made her breath catch.
"The Dreadfort has fallen. Lord Reed emerged from his swamps with Manderly men. My bastard pursues the traitors, but they slip away like shadows. The wildlings fight like demons. Consolidate all forces at Winterfell. Trust no one. The North remembers, and memory is a blade at our throat."
"The Dreadfort taken?" Bronze Yohn's eyes gleamed. "Then Bolton's position is weaker than we thought."
"Lord Reed lives?" Sansa couldn't hide her amazement. Howland Reed had been her father's dearest friend, but no one had seen him since the war began. "And Lord Manderly..."
"The merman's been playing his own game," Bronze Yohn said with grudging respect. "Pretending loyalty while undermining Bolton from within. Clever."
"My lords," she said, steel in her voice now. "We have a choice. We can debate and dither here, or we can march north and join my brother Jon Snow, he fights for House Stark. For the North."
"He's a bastard," Lord Belmore said coldly. "And a deserter from the Night's Watch, if these reports are true. You would have us follow such a man?"
"I would have us follow whoever can win," Sansa shot back. "Jon Snow has taken the Dreadfort. He has northmen at his back. He offers us alliance against a traitor who breaks guest rights." She paused, letting her words sink in. "Unless you prefer to treat with Ramsay Bolton? I'm sure he'd be delighted to discuss terms. Perhaps over a nice hunt."
Several lords paled. Ramsay's reputation had spread even to the Vale.
"The girl speaks sense," Bronze Yohn said, as his voice carried weight—when he spoke, men listened. "We came to restore House Stark. Does it matter which Stark leads, so long as justice is done?"
"It matters if he's brought wildlings south of the Wall," Lord Belmore insisted. "Savages who've raided our lands for thousands of years."
"Times change," Bronze Yohn said firmly. "The boy found a way to tame these savages."
"Or maybe they tamed him," Lord Hunter scoffed.
Sansa let them argue, her mind already moving ahead. Jon was alive, fighting, winning. The North was rising. And the Boltons sat in Winterfell like a spider in its web, waiting.
You won't have to wait long, she thought. Winter is coming, and we're bringing it with us.
"My lords," she said, cutting through the debate. "We must send ravens to White Harbor, to the mountain clans, to any house that will listen. Tell them Sansa Stark has come home, and the Vale rides with her. Tell them we march to join Jon Snow." She paused, meeting each lord's eyes in turn. "And tell them the pack has returned. It's time the Boltons learned what that means."
Bronze Yohn smiled grimly. "You heard the lady. We've a war to win and justice to deliver. Lord Hunter, see to the supplies. Lord Belmore, organize the vanguard. We march for Winterfell."
As the lords dispersed to their duties, Sansa remained in the hall, staring at the ancient throne of the Marsh Kings. Soon she'd see Winterfell again. Soon she'd know if any of her family truly survived.
Jon, she thought. Hold on. We're coming.
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Hornwood Forest, The North
The camp sprawled across the frozen meadow like a beast at rest, smoke from a hundred fires twisting into the darkening sky. Jon stood at the edge of a small pond, its surface black as obsidian in the fading light. Ghost lay nearby, his red eyes tracking something in the underbrush while Jon stared at nothing.
Aemon.
The name sat in his chest like a stone. Every time he tried to swallow it down, it rose again, bitter as wormwood. His reflection wavered in the pond—dark hair, grey eyes, the face that Howland Reed claimed belonged to Lyanna Stark's son. Not Ned's bastard. Not his shame.
Jon's lips twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. Of course. The bitter irony of it all crashed over him like a wave of black humor. Fire and blood. The words every Targaryen knows from the cradle. His fingers dug into the frozen earth, dirt grinding beneath his nails. Except this Targaryen grew up thinking he was ice and honor.
A harsh laugh escaped him, more growl than mirth. The sound startled a raven from a nearby pine, its wings beating against the twilight. All those years wondering why I felt wrong in my own skin. Turns out I was wearing the wrong bloody skin entirely.
The memory of his first transformation burned through him—flames consuming flesh, bones reshaping, the agony of becoming something else. Something true.
His reflection rippled as a breeze stirred the pond's surface. For a moment, he could almost see scales beneath the skin, shadow-wings spreading wide. The bastard dragon prince raised by wolves. What a damn jest.
Ghost's ears pricked forward, but Jon had already sensed her approach. The crunch of frost beneath boots, the particular rhythm of her stride. He'd grown attuned to Val's presence these past weeks, could pick her out from a crowd by sound alone.
"You been brooding so long, I could've skinned a bear, made a cloak, and worn it threadbare."
Her voice carried that wildling directness, cutting through his thoughts like a blade through silk. Jon grunted, the sound more beast than man. He heard her settle beside him, close enough that he caught the scent of pine needles and the northern wilderness in her hair.
"What's got yer feathers ruffled then?" Val pressed. "You been different since that talk with the small kneeler lord."
Jon's jaw tightened. The small kneeler lord who'd torn his world apart with a few words. He kept his eyes on the pond, watching his breath mist in the cold air.
"Was it about your mother?"
He couldn't stop the flinch. Val caught it—of course she did. The woman missed nothing.
"Heard plenty of lords whisperin' about it," she continued. "Who Jon Snow's mother might be. Seems you finally got your answer."
The silence stretched between them, only broken by Ghost padding forward, his massive head swinging toward Val. The direwolf's red eyes fixed on her face before he lowered himself, settling his great white skull across her thighs with a soft whuff of breath that misted in the cold air.
Val's fingers found the thick fur behind his ears without hesitation, working through the coarse outer coat to the softer down beneath. Ghost's eyes drifted half-closed, a rumble building deep in his chest though not quite a purr, but the closest a creature of his size could manage.
"Aye, you great beast," Val murmured, her nails scratching along the ridge of his skull where the fur grew thickest. "You know who needs comfortin' and who does the comfortin', don't you?"
Ghost's tail swept once across the frozen ground.
"Talk to me about her then," Val said, her voice gentler now. "Your mother."
Jon was quiet for a long moment, weighing the words. Val wouldn't understand the significance—how could she? The Free Folk had no lords or ladies, no great houses with their tangled webs of loyalty and betrayal. But perhaps that was why he could tell her.
"Lyanna Stark." The name felt strange on his tongue. "My mother was Lyanna Stark."
Val said nothing, waiting. Jon appreciated that about her, she knew when to push and when to let silence do the work.
"She was my... the sister of the man who raised me. Ned Stark's sister." His voice caught on the word uncle. "The realm went to war over her. Robert Baratheon started a rebellion because he thought Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped and raped her. Thousands died. My fa—" He stopped, corrected himself. "My uncle died with the lie. Without ever telling me the truth."
The words poured out now, a dam broken. "She went willingly. Loved him—Rhaegar Targaryen. Had me in secret while the realm bled. Made my uncle promise to protect me, so he did by claiming me as his bastard." A bitter laugh escaped him. "All my life I wanted to know who my mother was. Dreamed she was some lady who loved my father, who died birthing me. Turns out she was exactly that. Just not for the father I thought I had."
He told her about the Tower of Joy, about three Kingsguard dying to protect a prince they'd never acknowledge. About Ned Stark carrying a sister's son north and living a lie for sixteen years. About Howland Reed keeping that secret all this time, watching the realm tear itself apart over old wounds.
When he finished, the first stars had appeared overhead. Val had listened without interrupting, without the gasps or exclamations a southron lady might have made.
"So you found your mother," she said finally. "Even if your father turned out to be your uncle." She shifted beside him, and he felt her hand press against his chest, warm even through his leather jerkin. "And what’s this change, then? What’s it matter to the world?"
Jon looked down at her hand, then up at her face. The moonlight caught in her honey-colored hair, turned her grey eyes to silver.
"Will knowin' this stop the cold shadows from coming south?" she challenged. "Will it stop the ice dragons from killin' us all? Would it have changed any choice you made if you'd known before?"
The questions hit like arrows, each finding its mark. Jon opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. She was right. The dead were still coming. The Wall still weakened with each passing day. His duty remained unchanged.
Val's hand moved from his chest to his cheek, her palm rough from years of spear work. "Your uncle raised you to be a good man. Nothing about this truth changes that."
Jon found himself leaning into her touch, struck by how the moonlight made her beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with southern prettiness. There was strength in her features, honesty in her eyes. She smelled of winter and wildness and something uniquely her.
He wanted to say something, anything, but words failed him. Val smiled, the expression transforming her face, and let her hand drop.
"We got a long day tomorrow," she said, rising with the fluid grace of a shadowcat. "Best get some rest."
Jon watched her walk back toward the camp, her form disappearing into the maze of tents and fires. Ghost lifted his head, red eyes meeting Jon's grey ones. The direwolf's expression was almost amused, as if he understood something Jon was only beginning to grasp.
They sat there a moment longer, man and wolf, watching the stars reflect in the black water. Then Ghost huffed and padded after Val, leaving Jon alone with his thoughts and the growing certainty that some truths changed everything while changing nothing at all.
He touched his cheek where her hand had been, still feeling the warmth of it. Tomorrow they'd reach Hornwood. Tomorrow he'd have to be the leader they needed—bastard, trueborn, or dragon, it mattered not. But tonight, for just this moment, he allowed himself to be simply Jon, watching the stars and thinking of honey-colored hair in moonlight.
He rose, brushing frost from his breeches, and headed back to camp. Ghost had already disappeared into Val's tent, the traitor. Jon smiled despite himself. Even his direwolf knew which way the wind blew.
As he walked, he thought of Ned Stark—uncle, not father, but father nonetheless. The man who'd carried this secret to his grave, who'd stained his precious honor to protect his sister's son. Jon's anger had cooled, replaced by… understanding, perhaps. Or simply grief for all the words they'd never share.
The camp sounds washed over him aslaughter from the mountain clansmen, arguments in the Old Tongue from the Free Folk, the careful politeness of former Baratheon men trying to find their place. His people, strange as that seemed. Tomorrow he'd lead them to Hornwood, where Maege Mormont and Robett Glover waited with news of the war.
But tonight, he thought of Val's questions, her challenge, her touch. The truth of his birth hadn't changed the color of the sky or the cold of the wind. The dead still marched. The realm still needed defending.
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Winterfell, The North
The gates of Winterfell groaned open before him, and Ramsay Bolton rode through with the taste of defeat sat bitter on his tongue.
"Shut the gates!" he barked, dismounting in the courtyard. His boots splashed through slush turned pink with blood from wounded men. "Bar them! Double the watch!"
The men scrambled to obey, their movements jerky with exhaustion and fear. They'd seen their lord's rage before, knew what happened to those who disappointed him. But Ramsay had no time for flaying today. Not yet.
"My lord," Grunt limped forward, favoring his left leg where an arrow had punched through his thigh. "Should we not send word to your father?"
"My father will hear it from me." Ramsay's voice dropped to that dangerous whisper that made grown men step back. "Gather the others. My chambers. Now."
He stalked through Winterfell's halls, servants scattering from his path like mice before a cat. The ancient stones seemed to mock him, Stark stones, never truly his no matter how many flayed men banners hung from the walls. His father ruled here, but it was Ramsay who'd taken it, Ramsay who'd broken Theon Greyjoy in these very halls.
His private chambers reeked of wet dog and stale wine. Ramsay kicked aside a gnawed bone one of his bitches had left, pouring himself a cup of ale with hands that trembled though not from fear but from rage barely leashed.
One by one, his surviving captains filed in. Grunt, favoring his wounded leg. Sour Alyn with his arm in a crude sling. Ben Bones, who'd somehow escaped without a scratch, the lucky bastard. A few others, their pink cloaks muddy and torn.
"Shut the door," Ramsay commanded. "What I say here doesn't leave this room."
They exchanged glances but obeyed. These were his men, bound to him by shared cruelties and the promise of more to come.
"Tonight," Ramsay said softly, "my lord father dies."
The silence stretched taut as a bowstring. Finally, Sour Alyn cleared his throat. "My lord, kinslaying—"
"Is a sin for septons and weak men." Ramsay's pale eyes glittered. "My father sent us into a trap. Eight hundred men dead because he refused to listen, refused to act. The North rises against us while he sits in his solar, writing letters."
He drained his cup, threw it against the wall where it clattered across stone. "I warned him. Told him we should've crushed them before they gathered strength. But no, Lord Roose knew better. Lord Roose is always right."
"What would you have us do?" Ben Bones asked carefully.
"When I meet with him—and I will meet with him, he'll want to hear how his brilliant strategy failed—you'll wait outside. Only after I enter. Kill any guards who might interfere. Quietly. I'll handle my father myself."
Grunt shifted his weight. "And after?"
"After, I'm Lord of Winterfell. Lord of the Dreadfort. Warden of the North." Ramsay's smile could have curdled milk. "And we'll show these traitors what happens when you wake the beast."
He looked around the room, meeting each man's eyes. "Anyone who wants out, speak now. But know this, if you're not with me, you're against me. And you know what I do to enemies."
None spoke. They were his creatures, these men, shaped by violence and bound by it.
"Good." Ramsay moved to his weapon rack, selecting a thin blade. "Where's Abel? I want him to compose a song about this historic day."
"Haven't seen him since yesterday, my lord," Ben Bones offered. "Disappeared during the night."
Ramsay's expression darkened. "Disappeared?"
"Aye. Took his lute and vanished. Guards say they never saw him leave."
"Find him." The words came out as a snarl. "Search every corner of this castle. Check the crypts, the broken tower, everywhere. When you find him, bring him to me alive. I'll take his skin off in strips so thin you could read through them. A treat for myself when I'm the new lord."
The men nodded, recognizing the hunger in his voice. Ramsay had been denied his sport too long. First his bride, then his victory, now his singer. Someone would bleed for it.
"Go," he commanded. "Take your positions. I'll summon you when it's time."
They filed out, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the thin blade that would soon taste his father's blood. Ramsay ran his thumb along the edge, drawing a bead of crimson.
Soon, Father. Soon you'll see what your bastard has become.
He climbed the stairs to his father's solar, each step measured and deliberate. Two guards flanked the door and they straightened as he approached.
"My lord father is expecting me," Ramsay said.
The guards nodded, knocking twice before opening the heavy oak door. "Lord Ramsay, my lord."
Roose Bolton sat behind his desk, pale fingers steepled before him. Those colorless eyes regarded his son with the warmth of a winter moon. "Eight hundred men."
"The Mormonts had more than our scouts reported." Ramsay stepped inside, hearing the door close behind him. "They were ready for us."
"Of course they were ready." Roose's voice never rose above a whisper, yet each word cut deep. "You announced your coming with all the subtlety of a kennel feeding. Did you think Maege Mormont survived this long by being stupid?"
"If you'd let me take more men—"
"I gave you three thousand. You return eight hundred short." Roose rose from his chair, moving to the window that overlooked the courtyard. His back to Ramsay. "Tell me, what would more men have accomplished except more corpses for the crows?"
The blade felt warm in Ramsay's sleeve. Three steps. Three steps and he could bury it between those narrow shoulders, watch the blood spread across that grey doublet. His father thought himself so clever, so untouchable.
"Nothing to say?" Roose didn't turn. "No excuses? No blame for others? Perhaps you're learning."
Ramsay's hand slipped to the blade's hilt. Two steps now. His heart hammered against his ribs, blood singing with anticipation. This was the moment. This was—
The blade punched through his back, slipping between ribs with practiced ease.
Ramsay looked down, confused, at the red point protruding from his chest. When had he... but no, his blade was still in his sleeve. This one had come from behind.
"My lord," Sour Alyn's voice, calmly said. "As you commanded."
"Thank you, Alyn." Roose finally turned, those dead eyes studying his son with clinical interest. "You may go."
The door closed. Ramsay tried to speak but only blood came out, hot and thick. He fell to his knees, the blade grinding against bone.
"Did you think I didn't know?" Roose moved closer, careful to avoid the spreading pool of blood. "My spy told me everything. Your plans, your ambitions. Though I suspected already. You were never as clever as you thought."
Ramsay's vision blurred. This wasn't right. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to win, supposed to rule, supposed to rule.
"A useful tool, but tools can be replaced." Roose's voice seemed to come from very far away. "I have another son now. A trueborn son. Your stepmother is with child."
No. Ramsay wanted to scream, to rage, to flay the skin from his father's lying face. But all that came out was a wet laugh, blood bubbling between his lips. Of course. Of course it would end like this. The cosmic joke of it, Ramsay Snow, who'd tortured so many was now dying on his knees like a kicked dog.
He laughed harder, choking on his own blood, because what else was there to do? His father had played him perfectly, let him think he was the hunter when he'd been the prey all along.
"Still laughing?" Roose sounded almost curious. "Most men weep at the end."
But Ramsay couldn't stop. The laughter followed him down into darkness, echoing off stone walls that had never been his, would never be his. The Bastard of Bolton, dying as he'd lived—as a bastard, nothing more.
His last thought, as the world faded to black, was that at least his bitches would miss him.
Even if no one else would.
Comments
Full Horizon
Would you believe me if I said I actually thought about Ramsey taking out Roose while dying lmaoooo
Star445
Nice to see something different here. Usually Roose stills dies from Ramsey in many stories. Would’ve been funny if Ramsey goes crazy and takes out Roose with him lol.
Full Horizon
I pretend everything after season 4-5 doesnt exist for a reason LMAO
Mandragoran
Finally, a story where Roose is actually smart! I hate him still, but the dude deserved better writing than the show gave him and what other fanfic authors portray. Ramsay was just his mad dog
