Love beneath the Snow

39| 𝔰𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔥

𝔫𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔣𝔢𝔩𝔩'𝔰 𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔰

— THE LANDSCAPE BEFORE THEM WAS A STARK, UNFORGIVING EXPANSE, WHERE THE ICY WIND WHIPPED THROUGH THE SKELETAL TREES AND ACROSS THE FROZEN GROUP, CARRYING WITH IT THE SHARP BITE OF WINTER. They rode in a tight formation, their horses' hooves crunching over the frost-covered earth. The sky above was a dismal grey, heavy with the promise of more snow and the weight of the dire confrontation that lay ahead. Jon, Sansa, Valira, Tormund, Ser Davos, and Lyanna Mormont—each figure resolute, their faces set with grim determination.

In the distance, the campfires of Ramsay Bolton's forces flickered like malevolent eyes in the darkening twilight. The cruel lord of Winterfell had gathered his men in a show of force, a grim spectacle of the army he commanded. The sight of Ramsay's camp, surrounded by grim-faced soldiers and the crude banners of House Bolton, served as a harsh reminder of the battle that was to come.

As they approached, Jon could see Ramsay Bolton sitting on a magnificent, if slightly cruel-looking, horse. The man's demeanor was one of twisted satisfaction, his eyes glinting with malice. His men flanked him in a circle, their armor dark and menacing, reflecting the dim light of the late afternoon. The air was thick with tension as they came to a halt opposite Ramsay's contingent.

Ramsay's gaze fell upon Sansa with a twisted, almost affectionate grin. "My beloved wife," he drawled, his voice dripping with mock tenderness. "How I have missed you terribly." His eyes roamed over her, clearly relishing her discomfort. Sansa's face was a mask of stony defiance. Her posture was rigid, her eyes narrowing in cold disdain as she met Ramsay's gaze. There was a fire in her that spoke of her hatred for the man who had tormented her so.

Ramsay turned his attention to Jon, his tone shifting to one of cold command. "Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely to me," he said, his voice laden with mock gratitude. "Now, dismount and kneel before me. Surrender your army and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night's Watch and forgive these treasonous lords for betraying my house. There is no need for further bloodshed. You have neither the men nor the horses. Why lead these poor souls to slaughter? I am a man of mercy."

Jon's eyes, usually so full of warmth and resolve, now hardened into cold, unyielding steel. "You're right. There's no need for a battle. Thousands of men don't have to die—only one of us. Let's settle this the old way. You against me." Ramsay's laughter rang out, sharp and mocking, slicing through the tense silence like a blade. "I keep hearing tales about you, bastard," he said, his voice rich with derision. "They say you're the greatest swordsman to have ever walked the North. Maybe you are. Maybe not. I don't know if I'd beat you. But I do know that my army will crush yours. I have six thousand men. How many do you have? Half that number? Less?"

Jon's response was measured, his voice calm despite the gravity of the situation. "Aye, you have the numbers. But will your men fight for you when they know you won't fight for them?" Ramsay's eyes narrowed with a cruel, calculating light. "He's good," he said to his men, clearly amused by the exchange. He turned back to Jon, his smirk widening with malicious pleasure. "Tell me, will you let your little brother die because you're too proud to surrender?" Sansa stepped forward, her voice sharp and unwavering. "How do we know you have him?" Without missing a beat, Ramsay reached into a sack and tossed the severed head of Rickon's direwolf onto the ground in front of Jon. The head landed with a sickening thud, its eyes wide and unseeing. The brutal display was a stark, horrific reminder of the cost of failure.

"Now," Ramsay said, his tone as cold as the wind itself, "if you wish to save your little brother—" Sansa's gaze was unwavering as she addressed Ramsay, her voice cutting through the heavy silence. "You're going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton. Sleep well." With a final, defiant look, Sansa turned her horse with a swift movement, her steely gaze fixed ahead. The horse's hooves pounded against the frozen ground as she rode away, each step echoing with the weight of her resolve.

Ramsay watched her retreat with a perverse satisfaction. "She's a fine woman, your sister," he said, his tone laced with dark promise. "I look forward to having her back in my bed." His gaze then shifted to Valira, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "And Lady Stark, condolences for your husband. When I win this war, my soldiers will have a new toy to play with, and you'll be their favorite pastime." Jon's anger flared, his face dark with barely suppressed rage. He gripped the reins of his horse tightly, his knuckles turning white. Ramsay continued, his voice dripping with sadistic glee. "You're all fine-looking men. My dogs are desperate to meet you. I haven't fed them in seven days. They're ravenous. I wonder which part they'll try first—your eyes? Your balls? We'll find out soon enough."

Ramsay turned back to Jon, his expression a mask of cruel satisfaction. "In the morning then, bastard," he said with a final, mocking bow. He then turned his horse and rode away, his men following in a grim procession, leaving Jon and his companions to confront the grim reality of the coming conflict. As Ramsay's figures receded into the distance, the air around everyone was thick with the weight of what had transpired. The brutal words of Ramsay Bolton hung heavy in the cold air, a stark reminder of the stakes they faced. Jon, Valira, Tormund, Davos, and Lyanna stood together, each one steeling themselves for the trials to come.

Jon's gaze was fixed on the retreating figures of Ramsay's forces, his mind racing with strategies and contingencies. He knew the gravity of their situation, and the reality of the conflict that loomed large before them. The threat posed by Ramsay Bolton was not just a matter of military might, but of personal and emotional stakes that cut deep into their hearts. Valira, her face pale but her resolve unwavering, looked at Jon with a mix of concern and support. The mention of her husband and the threat of what Ramsay intended for her had struck a deep chord. She had already endured so much, and now, facing Ramsay's sadistic threats, her heart was heavy with the weight of her own loss and the uncertainty of the future.

Tormund and Davos stood nearby, their faces a study in grim determination. Tormund's usually boisterous demeanor was subdued, replaced by a steely resolve. Davos, ever the pragmatic strategist, was already formulating plans and contingencies, his mind racing with possibilities. Lyanna Mormont, small in stature but fierce in spirit, stood with a look of unyielding determination. Her presence was a reminder of the resilience of the North and the strength of those who fought to protect it.

A/N:
Ramsay is so scary! I don't like him ahahah
Love you all!