Back in the tent, Jon pulled his sword from its sheath and began hacking violently at the wooden stakes holding up the tent, sending splinters flying everywhere.
"I can't wait any longer, Ser!" he cried, sobbing uncontrollably in front of Marlon Manderly, who had followed him inside. Tears mixed with sweat as he shouted, "Did you hear that? Did you hear her?! She's crying, begging for help—she's my sister! If I wait any longer, even if Arya survives, they'll destroy her completely!"
Marlon Manderly's expression was heavy, like iron. He understood Jon's pain completely, but as a commander, he had to think about the larger picture. Just as he was about to speak, a scout soldier burst into the tent, pale and breathless.
"My lord, it's terrible! White Harbor has fallen! The Boltons' army breached the walls and are looting the town! Lord Wyman has been captured!"
"What?!" Marlon Manderly recoiled in shock. "Impossible! White Harbor's walls are sturdy, the defenses strong—how could they fall so quickly?"
"It was Ser Bartimus!" The soldier's face was twisted with both fear and rage. "He betrayed us! Last night, he opened White Harbor's gates in secret! Flint, Tallhart, and Karstark's armies rushed in! We've been sold out!"
Marlon Manderly slammed his fist onto the table. "Damn Bartimus! That treacherous bastard!" He turned to Jon, urgency in his voice. "Jon, this situation is dire. With White Harbor lost, our supply lines are completely cut. Without food and provisions, our twenty thousand men will soon be stranded. We must retreat immediately. Otherwise, when Bolton's forces return from White Harbor, we'll be trapped between them and the walls of Winterfell."
Jon's face turned from rage to shock. "Retreat? Where can we go? Is there even a place left for us in the North?"
Marlon Manderly paused for a moment before answering quickly. "We can retreat to the eastern coast and try to contact the Eastern King across the Narrow Sea. He is Lady Sansa's betrothed, and he funded your army. He will surely help us."
"But Arya is still inside!" Jon pointed toward Winterfell. "How can I just stand by and let her fall into Ramsay's hands? I can't do it!"
Ser Marlon closed his eyes in pain. The situation had reached its worst possible point.
Advancing meant facing an impenetrable fortress and the threat of a brutal hostage. Retreat meant severed supply lines and the threat of pursuing forces.
The army was caught in an unprecedented dilemma.
The impact of the bad news was immediate. With the fall of White Harbor and the disruption of the supply lines, news spread quickly, and morale began to collapse. Rations were immediately cut, and discontent grew throughout the camp.
The Dothraki, always undisciplined and unruly, were the first to rebel. They complained about the lack of food, sneaking out at night to raid nearby villages for grain and valuables, even committing acts of brutality.
At first, Jon and Manderly tried to keep them in check, but as more and more Dothraki left the camp, small-scale clashes broke out.
Manderly's soldiers were also demoralized. Their homeland had fallen, and their loved ones' fates were uncertain. Now, they were stranded in the wilderness, forced to eat stale bread, while watching their commander slowly break down over a single hostage. Dissatisfaction and resentment quietly took root.
Meanwhile, atop the castle walls, Ramsay Bolton continued his daily torture of "Arya," his actions endlessly tormenting Jon Snow, pushing his already frayed nerves to the edge. Jon barely slept, his pain growing worse with each passing day, as he rapidly deteriorated.
On the thirtieth day of the siege, the crude but functional siege engines were finally ready. Jon Snow stood at the front, thinner, his eyes sunken, yet burning with an almost mad determination. The murderous intent in his gaze was unmistakable.
He raised his longsword and issued the order to attack.
At almost the same moment, Ramsay Bolton appeared on the ramparts, still dragging the battered, barely standing figure of "Arya."
A cruel smile spread across Ramsay's face. "Jon Snow, you finally couldn't hold back? You really don't care about your dear sister's life anymore?"
Jon pointed his sword at him, his voice seething with hatred. "Ramsay, once I reach those walls, I swear I'll make you regret everything you've done. You'll pay for this!"
Ramsay erupted into a manic, triumphant laugh. "Pay? You don't believe I'll kill your sister, do you? Well... say goodbye to her!"
Under the horrified gazes of everyone around, he shoved the frail girl off the high castle battlements.
Her small form fell helplessly, her torn clothes and long hair fluttering in the biting wind.
She hit the frozen ground with a dull thud. Her body twitched once, her arm lifting slowly as though trying to reach Jon, but then it dropped limply, motionless.
"NO!!!"
Jon Snow let out a heart-wrenching scream. In that instant, all reason shattered in him, overwhelmed by the immense shock.
Like a wild animal, he spurred his horse forward, charging without thought.
"Jon! Come back! It's a trap! There's an ambush!" Ser Marlon Manderly shouted.
Jon heard nothing. His eyes saw only the small, frail figure lying on the ground.
He rode to the base of the wall, leapt from his horse, and stumbled toward her, nearly falling as he reached her side.
"Arya! Arya!"
His voice trembled with despair as he reached to lift her.
Now so close, he could finally see her face. It was horribly scarred, nearly unrecognizable.
Overwhelming grief and rage consumed him.
But as he tried to pull her into his arms, something felt wrong.
The contours of her face...
Though severely distorted by injury, the shape of her brow bone and the line of her jaw didn't quite match.
He had grown up with Arya, seen her laugh, cry, and make silly faces countless times. That familiar feeling was deep in his bones.
Yet this face, despite its disfigurement, felt vaguely unfamiliar.
Who was she?
She looked young, and the hair was a similar shade... but...
Before he could process the thought, the sound of whistling arrows filled the air.
From atop Winterfell's ramparts, a dense cluster of archers appeared—at least a hundred of them.
"Fire!"
A single command rang out.
A storm of arrows, whistling through the air, poured down upon the figure beneath the walls.
So close!
So dense!
Jon was wearing only light leather armor, no match for such a barrage.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The dull sounds of arrows piercing flesh erupted, one after another.
His body jerked violently, and in an instant, dozens of arrows pierced his shoulders, arms, chest, and thighs...
Blood blossomed across his body like countless crimson flowers.
He let out a muffled groan, his eyes still wide in shock as his body fell backward, unable to control the movement.
"Jon!"
Ser Marlon Manderly's eyes widened in fury. "Quick! Charge! Save the Lord!"
A squad of loyal Manderly soldiers immediately surged forward, charging recklessly through the hail of arrows.
The already demoralized Dothraki, seeing their commander fall, uncertain of his fate, erupted into chaos. Shouts and cries filled the air.
Their discipline had always been weak. Seeing the commander down, many of them immediately turned their horses and fled in all directions. The flank of the formation collapsed in an instant, the army breaking apart in disarray.
Worse was yet to come.
As the Manderly soldiers struggled to drag Jon, his body riddled with arrows and blood pouring from him, back to their lines, a deep, resonant horn sounded from the distant hills to the east and west.
Woo~~ Woo~~~
The banners of House Flint, House Tallhart, and House Karstark appeared.
Having finished their sacking and suppression of White Harbor, they had secretly returned as planned by Roose Bolton, lying in ambush for some time, waiting for this very moment to launch a deadly pincer attack from both flanks and the rear.
At the same time, the massive oak gates of Winterfell groaned open with the screeching sound of winches.
Ramsay himself led the Bolton's most elite cavalry, charging forward in a relentless surge.
In an instant, Ser Marlon Manderly's forces were trapped between two fires.
In front of them was the impregnable castle and a hail of arrows; behind them, the ambushing enemy. Morale shattered, the Dothraki scattered, and their commander lay mortally wounded.
He knew it was over.
"Retreat!"
With the last of his strength, he issued his final command: "Break south! As many as can escape, go!"
Ghost stood watch over his fallen master, letting out a long, mournful howl that pierced the dark sky.
...
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