The Great Hall of Winterfell.
Lord Roose Bolton sat relaxed upon the high seat once held by Eddard Stark. Below him, the lords of the North sat on either side of the long table.
"A letter has arrived from Ser Bartimus at White Harbor," Lord Roose Bolton spoke softly, yet his words made every ear in the hall perk up.
"Jon Snow, son of Rhaegar, not only lives, but leads twenty thousand men from Essos and two thousand mounted men from House Manderly toward Winterfell. They march in the name of Sansa Stark, claiming they will reclaim Winterfell and all the North."
The words fell, and the silence shattered.
Greatjon Umber slammed his massive hand onto the table, sending cups and plates rattling. He sprang to his feet.
"This bastard must be taught a lesson! A mongrel with Dragonlord blood dares covet the North!?"
He deliberately avoided using the Stark name.
Immediately, Galbart Glover rose, his tone measured.
"My lord Roose, we ought to punish Lord Manderly first. He openly colludes with foreign armies, inviting wolves into our home. He is already the North's enemy. We are not without allies in White Harbor; Ser Bartimus has already expressed his willingness to assist us in his letter."
Roose Bolton gave a slight nod.
"True, Lord Lamprey must pay for his choices. But the immediate threat is Jon Snow and his army—twenty thousand strong, fifteen thousand of them savages from the Dothraki steppes. What say you, lords?"
The hall fell once more into a stifling silence. Every lord knew that the North's open terrain made engaging the swift, skilled Dothraki in open battle akin to sending their men to their deaths. Moreover, the Northmen's armor consisted mostly of leathers and chainmail, far less sturdy than the steel plate armor of southern knights, making them vulnerable to the Dothraki's arrows.
Just then, Ramsay grinned cruelly.
"Father, perhaps the Lady Arya in our custody might make that Snow hesitate to act."
The nobles' gazes instantly converged on Ramsay's hideous face, their eyes flickering with disgust.
Lord Roose Bolton's gaze wavered. He knew the girl was no Arya Stark, merely Beth Cassel, daughter of Rodrik Cassel. Could this lie deceive Jon Snow, who had grown up with Arya?
Ramsay sensed his father's hesitation. He leaned close to Roose Bolton's ear and whispered rapidly in a hushed voice.
No one caught his words, but they saw Roose Great Lord's milky pupils narrow gradually.
Moments later, Roose Bolton spoke calmly,
"Ramsay, I leave this matter to your arrangements. I expect no mistakes."
A chilling smile instantly spread across Ramsay's face.
"Father, I shall not disappoint you."
He bowed, then as he stepped back, his gaze swept casually over the assembled nobles, sending a chill through them.
Roose then turned to several lords in the hall:
"Lord Flint, Lord Tallhart, and Lord Karstark—I require your armies to march immediately to White Harbor. Seize it. Bring that Lamprey who betrayed the North to Winterfell for trial."
Robin Flint, son of the named Lyessa Flint; Helman Tallhart of Torrhen's Square; and Arnolf Karstark of Karhold rose at the command, bowing their heads in acknowledgment.
Half a month later, Jon's army finally reached the outskirts of Winterfell.
Jon reined in his warhorse, gazing at the familiar curtain walls and towers in the distance, his emotions complex.
His homeland lay within reach, yet the flaying banners of House Bolton flew from the castle walls. In less than two years, the North had changed beyond recognition. The transformation nearly brought tears to his eyes.
Beside him, Ghost let out a low growl.
This giant wolf, as understanding as any man, recognized this land too, remembered its scent. Back at Hardhome, when Jon had fallen into the sea, it was Ghost who had clamped his teeth onto Jon's cloak, dragging him desperately, finally pushing him onto a floating chunk of ice.
They drifted on the ice floes for two full days before being rescued by Moreo's fleet. Since then, the bond between Jon and Ghost had long transcended that of master and pet; they were brothers sharing one life.
Ser Marlon Manderly, the captain of the guard at White Harbor, rode up to him, his face troubled.
"Jon, something's not right. From White Harbor to Winterfell, our journey has been too smooth—we've encountered hardly any proper resistance. The Boltons haven't even burned bridges or set up roadblocks to delay us."
Jon snapped out of his homesick reverie, frowning.
"They may be counting on the strength of Winterfell's walls. Fighting us in the open, especially with the Dothraki, is disadvantageous for them. But we lack siege equipment. We must immediately detach a portion of our men to cut timber in the Wolfswood for catapults and siege towers."
Ser Marlon Manderly hesitated. He had more to say, but seeing Jon's resolute profile, he nodded instead.
"I'll organize the men at once. Let's hope time is on our side."
At that moment, a line of figures suddenly appeared atop Winterfell's towering walls. A repulsive face emerged from the battlements.
Ramsay gripped a frail girl's brown hair roughly, nearly dragging her to the edge of the parapet. A gleaming longsword was pressed against her slender neck.
"Jon Snow!"
Ramsay's voice was shrill and excited.
"Look closely. This is Arya Stark, my dear wife. If you dare move your savage army forward, I will slit her throat this instant."
Jon's heart clenched instantly. He narrowed his eyes sharply, straining to make out the girl's face. From the distance, her long auburn hair, disheveled by the cold wind and her struggles, nearly obscured her face entirely, leaving only a blurred outline visible.
Ramsay seemed to read his thoughts, breaking into a savage grin. He reached out with his other hand, roughly sweeping the hair from her face and forcing her to lift her chin, facing the crowd below the castle walls.
In that instant, Jon was struck as if by lightning. Not an inch of that face remained untouched. Lacing lash marks, bruises darkening to purple and black, scabbed wounds that had split open again, and even horrific burn scars combined to form a face of unspeakable horror, utterly destroying the girl's original beauty.
"Arya!" she gasped, trembling violently as Ramsay held her down. Her mouth was stuffed tight with rags, leaving her only able to make desperate muffled sounds.
When her gaze finally found Jon below the walls, the only relatively intact eye welled up with large tears, filled with endless pleading.
"Arya!!!"
Jon let out a heart-wrenching roar. The lively, stubborn little sister from his memories had been tortured into this state. Boundless rage and heartache shattered his reason. He dug his heels into his horse's flanks, ready to charge recklessly forward, only to be seized by the reins by the quick-witted Ser Marlon Manderly at his side.
"Lay down your weapons and surrender, Snow!"
Ramsay's voice dripped with cruel delight.
"Or I'll have your precious sister beheaded this instant!"
"Jon, it's a trap! Keep your head!" Ser Marlon growled in his ear.
Jon's breath came in ragged gasps. His eyes blazed crimson as his fingernails dug deep into his palms, blood seeping through the cracks. It took every ounce of strength, nearly grinding his teeth to dust, to suppress the immediate urge to charge the castle.
His gaze locked on the tortured figure atop the ramparts, his voice hoarse and twisted with fury.
"Ser! Quickly! I need siege weapons! The sooner the better! Every day delayed means another day of suffering for my sister!"
Marlon Manderly watched Jon teetering on the edge of collapse, sighed heavily, said nothing more, and turned his horse to gallop away, bellowing orders to the carpenters and lumber crews. Jon ordered his army to encircle the city, while some soldiers began felling nearby trees.
Yet Ramsay Bolton's cruel game was far from over. Each morning thereafter, he would punctually drag "Arya" up onto the ramparts, displaying her horrifying state to Jon's army while issuing fresh threats. And each day, the scars on the girl's face seemed to multiply, growing ever more gruesome.
Jon's fury grew daily, while anxiety gnawed at his heart, robbing him of sleep. Ghost, too, grew restless, mirroring his turmoil.
The siege entered its tenth day. This time, Ramsay carried not a sword, but a long leather whip. Standing atop the gatehouse, he flogged "Arya" before all the soldiers, lash after lash. The sharp crack of leather tearing through the air and the girl's agonized cries rang out clearly.
Jon watched, his eyes bloodshot, nearly biting through his own lip. Several times he was on the verge of drawing his sword and charging the walls alone, but each time he was held back by others.
On the fifteenth day of the siege, the atrocities escalated to an unimaginable level. Ramsay tore at "Arya's" already tattered clothes, summoning several Bolton soldiers to surround her and commit acts of unspeakable violation. Immediately after, Ramsay's henchmen publicly humiliated "Arya."
The lewd laughter of men and the girl's shrill, desperate cries and screams tore through the sky above Winterfell. The sound repeatedly sliced through Jon's nerves.
He finally broke completely.