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novaursa · 3 months ago

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The North Remembers Her (the winter has come)

- Summary: He captured you, but you will not allow him to break you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Ramsay Bolton

- Note: This is the last part of this story.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (blood, gore, violence, death)

- Previous part: whispers of snow

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

Winterfell’s walls buzzed with ill omen as the icy wind carried the distant rumble of an approaching army. Ramsay stood at the top of the battlements, his pale blue eyes scanning the horizon, his grin sharper than ever. His men moved with precision beneath him, assembling for the battle that loomed closer with each passing moment. Crimson banners bearing the flayed man of House Bolton flapped wildly in the stormy winds, a dread sight upon the gray and white of the Northern landscape.

One of his captains approached, bowing quickly before speaking. “My lord, the scouts report Jon Snow’s army is nearly upon us. They’ll be at the gates by nightfall.”

Ramsay’s grin widened, his eyes brilliant with anticipation. “Good. Let them come,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “We’ll crush them under the walls of Winterfell. And when their bodies are piled high, I’ll send their bastard leader’s head back to the Wall.”

The captain nodded and retreated to relay the orders. Ramsay turned to Reek, who lingered nearby, trembling under the weight of his presence. “Reek,” he said, his tone deceptively light, “make yourself useful. See to the hounds. They’ll have a feast tonight.”

“Yes, my lord,” Reek stammered, scurrying away like a frightened animal.

Ramsay inhaled deeply, as though savoring the scent of blood and battle on the air. His grin faltered only slightly when another soldier approached, hesitating before speaking.

“My lord,” the soldier said, his tone cautious, “the Lady Bolton… she’s gone into labor.”

For a brief moment, Ramsay’s expression froze, the grin slipping into something unreadable. Then, just as quickly, it returned, triumphant than ever. “Well, isn’t that fortuitous?” he said, his voice laced with mock cheer. “Two battles in one day.”

Inside the castle, the sense of foreboding was no less palpable. You were confined to your chambers, clutching the edge of the bed as another wave of pain tore through you. The midwives moved frantically around you, their voices low and urgent as they prepared for the child’s arrival. The room felt stifling despite the chill in the air, the fire in the hearth doing little to warm the cold reality that had settled in your chest.

Your breaths came in short, ragged gasps as you clutched the sheets, the pain almost blinding. “It’s too soon,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “This shouldn’t be happening now.”

The head midwife glanced at you briefly, her face tight with worry. “Babes come when they will, my lady. Focus on breathing. Save your strength.”

The door creaked open, and Ramsay strode in, his presence filling the room like a storm. His eyes swept over the scene, his smile returning as he took in the chaos.

“Ah, wife,” he said, his voice lilting with mock affection. “You couldn’t have picked a better time. While your bastard brother marches to his death, you’re giving me an heir. How wonderful.”

You glared at him through the haze of pain, your voice a low growl. “Get out.”

Ramsay chuckled, stepping closer to the bed. “Oh, but why would I miss this? My child’s birth is a momentous occasion. The future of House Bolton, born amidst the cries of battle.”

“You don’t care about this child,” you snapped, your voice trembling with a mix of pain and fury. “You care about your power.”

Ramsay’s smile faltered briefly, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “And power is all that matters, isn’t it? This child ensures our legacy, wife. It ensures my legacy.”

Another contraction tore through you, and you cried out, clutching the sheets tightly. The midwives murmured words of encouragement, urging you to focus, but Ramsay’s presence made it impossible to find any semblance of calm.

The soldier from before appeared in the doorway, his face pale. “My lord, Snow’s forces are nearing the gates. They’ll be here within the hour.”

Ramsay turned, his smile returning as though the news were a gift. “Excellent. Ready the men. I’ll be down shortly.”

The soldier hesitated, glancing toward you before retreating quickly. Ramsay turned back to you, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

“Do try to hurry this along, wife,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “I’d hate to miss the moment. But duty calls.”

Before you could respond, he turned on his heel and strode out, his boots echoing against the stone floor.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to breathe through the pain. The midwife leaned closer, her voice steady despite the tension in the room. “My lady, you must focus. The babe is coming.”

Tears pricked at your eyes as another wave of pain surged through you. The sounds of preparation outside the walls echoed faintly in the distance—Ramsay’s army readying for war, Jon’s forces drawing closer.

But here, in this room, another battle was being fought.

And you prayed silently to the Old Gods for strength, for survival, for the child you were about to bring into a world of blood and fire.

The winds howled across the snow-covered plains before Winterfell, whipping the banners of House Bolton against the sky. Ramsay rode at the head of his force, his eyes alight with amusement as he surveyed the opposing army. The Stark banners—proud direwolves on fields of white—stood in stark contrast to the flayed man of the Boltons. The sight of them seemed to amuse Ramsay even more.

Jon Snow sat astride a black horse at the front of his army, his expression grim and determined. To his right rode Davos Seaworth, his gaze scanning the Bolton forces, while Tormund Giantsbane sat to Jon’s left, his wild red hair and beard bristling against the wind. Behind them, the men of the North and the Free Folk stood united, their presence a defiant challenge to Ramsay’s rule.

Ramsay grinned widely as he reined his horse to a stop just a few paces from Jon. His men halted behind him, a wall of crimson and steel. The air between the two armies crackled with animosity, the silence broken only by the whinnying of horses and the rustling of banners.

Jon’s voice cut through the cold air like a blade. “Ramsay Bolton,” he called, his tone steady but filled with restrained fury. “I’m here to give you a chance to save your men. Surrender Winterfell. Release my sister. And retreat to the Dreadfort.”

Ramsay’s grin widened, his pale eyes gleaming with amusement. “Your sister?” he said, his tone mockingly light. “You mean my wife. My lady. She belongs to me now, Snow.”

Tormund growled, his hand gripping the hilt of his axe. Davos placed a steadying hand on Jon’s arm, though his own expression was hard as stone.

Jon’s voice rose, cutting through Ramsay’s taunts. “Surrender now, and I’ll let you leave with your life. Refuse, and I’ll take Winterfell from you. I’ll rip your banners from its walls and burn them in the Godswood.”

Ramsay threw his head back and laughed, the sound sharp and grating against the tense silence. “Oh, you are amusing, Snow. Truly. Do you think you’re in a position to make demands? Look at you.” He gestured to the army behind Jon, his grin twisting into something cruel. “A ragged band of Wildlings, deserters, and broken men. Do you really think they can stand against me?”

Tormund’s horse stepped forward, the wildling’s voice a deep growl. “You’ll find out soon enough, bastard.”

Ramsay’s grin faltered briefly, his eyes narrowing. “Careful, savage,” he said, his tone cold. “I don’t take kindly to threats.”

Davos spoke then, his voice calm but firm. “This doesn’t have to end in bloodshed, Lord Bolton. You could save your men, save yourself, by walking away.”

Ramsay tilted his head, his grin returning. “Save myself? I don’t need saving, Onion Knight. I am the Warden of the North. Winterfell is mine. And no bastard, no savage, and no smuggler will take it from me.”

Jon’s voice was steady, but the fury in his eyes was unmistakable. “This is your last chance. Surrender, or face the consequences.”

Ramsay leaned forward in his saddle, his grin widening further. “Consequences? Oh, Snow, I think you’ll find I enjoy consequences. Tell me, have you ever seen what a pack of hounds can do to a man? Or perhaps I’ll show you what they can do to a sister.”

Jon’s hands clenched around the reins, his knuckles white. The hatred between the two men was a tangible thing, thickening the air until it seemed ready to snap.

But then Ramsay leaned back, his grin softening into something almost playful. “You’ll die here, Snow,” he said lightly. “You and your little army. And when it’s over, I’ll hang your body from the walls of Winterfell for the crows to feast on.”

Jon didn’t flinch, his voice cutting through Ramsay’s mockery like ice. “Then we fight.”

Ramsay’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Yes, we do.”

With that, he turned his horse sharply, his men following suit as they rode back toward the gates of Winterfell. The sound of their retreating hoofbeats echoed across the field, leaving Jon and his army in tense silence.

Tormund spat into the snow. “Cocky little bastard.”

Davos shook his head, his voice grim. “He’s dangerous. Too dangerous for games. We need to be ready.”

Jon turned his horse back to his men, his face set in grim determination. “He’ll pay for what he’s done. For everything.”

And as the Stark banners fluttered in the icy wind, the two armies prepared for the storm of battle that was about to descend upon Winterfell.

The clash of steel and the screams of men echoed across the snow-covered plains before Winterfell, mingling with the howling wind. Ramsay’s banners of flayed men flew high above the battlefield. Below, chaos reigned.

Jon Snow led his forces into the fray, Longclaw shone as he cut through the lines of Bolton soldiers. Beside him, Tormund roared like a wild beast, his axe carving paths of destruction. Davos Seaworth commanded the left flank, his calm and strategic orders keeping the line intact against the relentless onslaught.

Ramsay sat atop his horse at the rear of the battlefield, his pale blue eyes gleaming with excitement as he watched the carnage. “Beautiful,” he murmured to himself, his smirk cutting as a blade. “Simply beautiful.”

Inside the walls of Winterfell, the battle was far from your mind. Your screams filled the chambers as another wave of pain tore through you, the midwives bustling around in controlled chaos. Sweat beaded on your forehead despite the chill in the air, and your hands gripped the sheets with white-knuckled intensity.

“Breathe, my lady,” one of the midwives urged, her voice steady despite the chaos. “The babe is coming.”

“I am breathing!” you snapped, though your voice wavered with the strain.

Another contraction gripped you, and you cried out, the pain overwhelming. Outside, the distant sounds of battle seeped through the stone walls, a grim reminder of the war raging just beyond the castle gates.

Reek hovered near the door, his hunched figure trembling as he watched. His eyes darted nervously between you and the midwives, his fear visible.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you hissed through clenched teeth, glaring at him.

“I-I’m supposed to stay,” he stammered, his voice barely audible. “My lord’s orders…”

“To hell with his orders!” you snapped, another scream tearing from your throat.

On the battlefield, Ramsay’s forces began to falter under the relentless assault. Jon Snow’s men pushed forward with somber resolve, their cries of vengeance ringing out as they fought to reclaim Winterfell.

Jon himself was a blur of movement, his sword cutting through Bolton soldiers with precision. His focus was unyielding, his mind filled with the faces of his siblings, the memories of what had been stolen from them.

Across the field, Ramsay watched with growing irritation as his lines began to break. He dismounted his horse, his smirk replaced with a cold fury. “Hold the line!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Hold it, or I’ll flay every last one of you!”

But even his threats couldn’t stop the tide.

Inside Winterfell, the midwives worked frantically, their hands steady despite the urgency of the moment.

“The head is crowning, my lady,” one of them said, her voice firm but encouraging. “You must push.”

Your breath came in ragged gasps, the pain blinding as you gripped the sheets tighter. “I… I can’t,” you gasped, your voice trembling with exhaustion.

“You can,” the midwife insisted, her eyes meeting yours with determination. “One more push, my lady. For the child.”

With a scream that felt like it would tear you apart, you bore down with all the strength you had left. The sound of a baby’s cry filled the room, strong and piercing, cutting through the air like a storm.

The midwives moved quickly, wrapping the newborn in a soft blanket and placing the child in your trembling arms. Tears streamed down your face as you looked down at the tiny figure, its cries subsiding into soft whimpers.

“It’s a boy,” the midwife said softly, her voice filled with quiet awe.

For a brief moment, the world outside faded away, and all that mattered was the child in your arms.

On the battlefield, the tide turned completely. The sound of hooves thundered across the plains as the knights of the Vale appeared on the horizon, their banners snapping in the wind.

Riding at their head was Petyr Baelish, his gaze fixed on the chaos below. Beside him, Sansa Stark sat tall and proud, her expression cold and determined as she watched the Bolton forces falter.

The knights charged into the fray, their lances gleaming as they crashed into Ramsay’s men with devastating force. The Bolton lines broke completely, their soldiers scattering in every direction as the battle turned to rout.

Ramsay stood amidst the chaos, his pale eyes wide with fury and disbelief. “No,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “This isn’t how it ends.”

But as Jon Snow approached, his sword raised and his face calm, Ramsay knew the end was near.

Inside Winterfell, the midwives cleaned the room quietly as you held your son close, his tiny hand grasping at your finger. The sounds of battle had faded, replaced by the muffled cheers of victory from outside.

Reek remained by the door, his trembling figure a reminder of the world you were still trapped in. But as you looked down at your child, a spark of hope flickered in your chest.

The wolf was still alive. And so was the fight.

The courtyard of Winterfell was eerily silent, the snow thick beneath their boots. The air was heavy, carrying the metallic tang of blood from the battle that had raged just hours before.

Jon Snow stood tall, his chest heaving, Longclaw gleaming in his gloved hand. Across from him, Ramsay Bolton lingered, his eyes alight with something dark and dangerous. The smirk on Ramsay’s face belied the truth of his situation; his men, those who hadn’t fled or been slaughtered, cowered at the edges of the courtyard, leaving him exposed.

The snow crunched beneath Ramsay’s boots as he stepped forward, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. “You’re persistent,” he said, his voice carrying a mockery that only served to ignite the tension further. “I’ll give you that.”

Jon’s grip on Longclaw tightened, his knuckles white. “Surrender, Ramsay,” he growled, his voice low but steady. “This is over.”

Ramsay tilted his head, his smirk widening. “Over? Oh, no, Snow. This is just beginning. You see, Winterfell is mine now. It doesn’t matter how many Wildlings, traitors, or Starks you bring.” His voice turned icy, venomous. “The North is mine.”

Jon’s eyes burned with fury, but he held his ground. “You’re wrong. The North belongs to the Starks. It always has, and it always will.”

Ramsay laughed, a low, grating sound that echoed off the walls. “The Starks?” he sneered. “A dead house. A memory. The North follows power, and I’ve shown them power. Fear is stronger than loyalty, Jon Snow.”

Jon took a step forward, his voice rising. “You think fear will protect you? You think it will save you from this?” He gestured around them, to the fallen men and shattered banners. “The North remembers, Ramsay. And today, they’ll see justice.”

Ramsay’s grin faltered, his eyes narrowing. “Justice?” he repeated, his voice laced with mockery. “Is that what you think this is?”

He raised his arms, gesturing to the empty courtyard. “Go on, Jon. Fight me. Kill me. Prove to the North that you’re just like me. That you solve problems with blood and steel. Show them that you’re no better than the bastard you despise.”

Jon’s grip on Longclaw tightened further, his rage barely contained. “This isn’t about me,” he said firmly. “It’s about everyone you’ve hurt. Everyone you’ve killed.”

Ramsay’s grin returned, sharper than before. “Oh, you’re so noble, aren’t you? So self-righteous. But tell me, Jon… how many men have you killed to get here? How many lives did you throw away to claim your precious Winterfell?”

Jon took another step forward, the fury in his eyes matched only by the resolve in his stance. “You talk about fear and power, Ramsay. But look around you. Your men abandoned you. Your banners are torn. You’re alone.”

Ramsay’s smirk flickered, a shadow of doubt crossing his face before it was replaced by defiance. “I don’t need anyone else,” he hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “Because I’ll always have Winterfell. And I’ll always have her.”

Jon’s expression darkened, the mention of his sister igniting a fire within him. He raised Longclaw, pointing the blade directly at Ramsay. “You won’t touch her again. You won’t hurt anyone again.”

For a moment, the two men stood frozen, the snow falling softly around them. Then Ramsay lunged, his dagger flashing in the light as he closed the distance.

But Jon was ready.

With a swift, practiced motion, Longclaw met Ramsay’s dagger, the clash of steel ringing out across the courtyard. The force of the blow drove Ramsay back a step, but his grin remained, his movements quick and erratic as he slashed again.

Jon blocked the strike easily, his sword swinging in a wide arc that forced Ramsay to retreat. The smirk on Ramsay’s face began to falter as Jon pressed forward, his strikes deliberate and unrelenting.

“You’re nothing without your men,” Jon growled, his voice carrying over the clash of steel. “Without your tricks. Without your hounds.”

Ramsay’s breath came faster, his movements growing desperate as he tried to fend off Jon’s relentless assault. “And you’re nothing but a bastard,” he spat, his voice trembling with fury.

Jon’s blade caught Ramsay’s dagger, wrenching it from his grasp and sending it clattering to the ground. Before Ramsay could react, Jon’s fist collided with his jaw, sending him sprawling into the snow.

Ramsay scrambled to his knees, his eyes wide with shock as Jon loomed over him, Longclaw poised for the killing blow.

The courtyard was silent, every eye fixed on the two men. Ramsay’s smirk was gone, replaced by the realization of his own defeat.

“Do it,” Ramsay hissed, his voice low and venomous. “Kill me. Show them who you really are.”

Jon hesitated, his grip on Longclaw tightening as he stared down at the man who had taken so much from him. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, his fury warring with his sense of justice.

Then he lowered the blade, his voice steady. “You don’t deserve a quick death.”

Turning away, he signaled to the men waiting nearby. “Take him,” he commanded, his voice firm. “Put him in the kennels.”

As the soldiers dragged Ramsay away, his laughter echoed across the courtyard, chilling and hollow. “You’ll regret this, Snow,” he called out. “You’ll regret not killing me when you had the chance!”

But Jon didn’t look back.

The halls of Winterfell were quiet now, save for the faint echoes of boots on stone. The stench of battle still lingered in the air, a reminder of the lives lost to reclaim the ancestral seat of House Stark. Jon Snow led the way, his steps deliberate as he moved through the familiar corridors with Sansa close behind him. Their men followed silently, their faces marked with the weariness of war but also the faintest glimmer of triumph.

Jon’s sword hung at his side, his grip tight on the hilt as they approached the solar where the midwives had said she was. His heart pounded with anxiety and unease, the weight of what he might find pressing heavily on his chest. He glanced at Sansa, whose expression was a mixture of worry and determination, her fiery hair stark against the low light of the castle.

As they entered the room, the sight before them made Jon’s breath catch in his throat. There she was—his sister, seated in a large wooden chair near the hearth, a bundle wrapped tightly in her arms. The midwives bustled quietly around her, their hands careful as they cleaned and tidied the room. Despite her exhaustion, there was a fierce protectiveness in the way she held the babe, her head tilted down to shield it.

And then there was Reek.

He lingered near the corner, his hunched figure trembling, his wide eyes darting to Jon and then back to the floor. His clothes hung off his thin frame, and the remnants of the man Jon once knew were buried deep beneath layers of shame and fear. Recognition flickered in Jon’s eyes as he took a sharp breath.

“Theon,” Jon said, his voice low and filled with disbelief.

Reek—no, Theon—flinched at the name, shuffling further into the corner like a beaten dog. His hands twisted nervously in front of him, and he refused to meet Jon’s gaze. “I… I didn’t… I tried to…” His words were disjointed, barely audible.

Jon took a step toward him, his expression hardening, but Sansa placed a hand on his arm. “Jon,” she said softly, her voice steady. “Not now.”

He hesitated, his fists clenching at his sides, before his gaze shifted back to the figure seated by the hearth. The weight of the moment crashed over him, and his anger toward Theon faded into the background as he took a step closer to his sister.

“Y/N,” Jon said, his voice softer now, filled with a mixture of relief and concern.

You looked up slowly, exhaustion etched into every line of your face. But when your eyes met Jon’s, something shifted. The weight you had carried for so long seemed to lift, if only slightly, at the sight of him standing there, alive, whole, and so very much like your father.

“Jon,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

He crossed the room quickly, dropping to one knee beside you. His eyes flickered to the bundle in your arms, and his breath hitched when he realized what it was—a child. “You’re alive,” he said softly, his hand hovering near yours but not quite touching. “You’re… safe.”

Sansa moved closer, her expression a mixture of shock and heartbreak as she took in the sight of you. “Oh, Y/N,” she said, her voice breaking. “What have they done to you?”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you forced them back, shaking your head slightly. “I survived,” you said quietly. “That’s all that matters.”

Jon’s gaze shifted to the babe in your arms, his brow furrowing. “Is it… his?” he asked hesitantly, his voice laced with anger he couldn’t quite contain.

Your grip on the child tightened, your voice firm despite the quaver in it. “He’s mine,” you said, meeting Jon’s gaze with a fierce protectiveness. “Whatever blood runs through his veins, he’s mine.”

Sansa knelt beside Jon, her hand gently resting on your arm. “We’ll protect you,” she said softly, her voice filled with quiet determination. “We’ll protect both of you.”

Jon nodded, his jaw tightening as he looked back at you. “He won’t hurt you again,” he said firmly. “Ramsay is finished.”

You let out a shaky breath, the weight of their words settling over you like a balm. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you allowed yourself to believe it might be true.

Reek—Theon—shifted nervously in the corner, drawing Jon’s attention again. His face hardened as he stood, but Sansa’s hand on his arm stopped him once more.

“He helped her,” Sansa said quietly. “In his own way. Let it be.”

Jon hesitated, his eyes burning into Theon’s crumpled figure. Finally, he nodded curtly, turning back to you. “We’ll figure this out,” he said softly. “Together. As a family.”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks as you looked at them—your family, your blood. For the first time in so long, hope flickered in your heart.

Winterfell was home again. And the wolf, though battered and scarred, was still standing.

The cold air bit at your skin as you descended into the dim stone corridors beneath Winterfell, the faint smell of damp earth and animal musk thickening as you approached the kennels. The torches flickered weakly in their sconces. Your footsteps echoed, the sound bouncing off the confined space, but you walked steadily, cradling the strength you had left after a week of painful recovery.

The midwives had protested your decision to leave your chambers, but you silenced them with a single look. This was something you needed to do yourself. Jon had offered to handle it, his rage barely contained whenever Ramsay’s name was mentioned, but this was not his task. Ramsay was your demon to confront.

Reek—or Theon, as Jon and Sansa had begun calling him—followed a few steps behind, his figure hunched as always. He hadn’t spoken much since the battle, but his presence was strangely reassuring. He understood what Ramsay had done, perhaps better than anyone else.

When you reached the iron door of the kennels, two of Jon’s men stood guard. They stiffened at your approach, their eyes flickering with concern. One of them stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“My lady,” he began cautiously, “are you sure—”

“I’m sure,” you interrupted, your voice firm. “Open the door.”

The guard hesitated but obeyed, the heavy iron door creaking open to reveal the dark, narrow corridor beyond. The sound of snarling and pacing echoed faintly, and the air grew colder as you stepped inside.

At the end of the row of cages sat Ramsay Bolton, shackled and filthy, his once-pristine leather jerkin torn and stained. He was slumped against the stone wall, his pale blue eyes lifting to meet yours as you approached. The grin that curled across his lips was both familiar and chilling.

“Ah, my wife,” he drawled, his voice hoarse but mocking. “Come to visit your lord husband in his moment of need? How touching.”

You stopped just out of reach, your eyes narrowing as you studied him. His face was gaunt, his lips cracked, but the fire in his gaze had not dimmed.

“I’m not your wife,” you said coldly. “Not anymore.”

Ramsay’s grin widened, though it was brittle now, his pale eyes gleaming with something dark. “Oh, but you are. You’ll always be mine, little wolf. No matter what your brother or his Wildling friends think.”

You clenched your fists, your nails biting into your palms. “You’re wrong. You’ve lost everything, Ramsay. Winterfell, the North, your men—everything. And now you’ll answer for what you’ve done.”

His laugh was low and grating, echoing in the confined space. “Answer? To you? What are you going to do, wife? Lecture me? Scold me? You don’t have the stomach for what needs to be done.”

You stepped closer, your voice steady despite the fury burning within you. “I have more stomach for it than you think. And unlike you, I don’t need to hide behind fear or cruelty to make my point.”

Ramsay’s grin faltered, his pale eyes narrowing as he studied you. “You think you’ve won,” he said softly, his voice dripping with venom. “But you’ll never be rid of me. You’ll see me in that child of yours. Every time you look at him, you’ll remember me. And you’ll never forget.”

Your breath caught for a moment, his words hitting their mark. But then you straightened, your voice firm. “You’re wrong again, Ramsay. He’s not yours. He never was. He’s mine.”

His laughter was sharper this time, almost manic. “Oh, little wolf, you’re deluding yourself. But go on. Decide my fate. Show me how merciful the Starks really are.”

You turned to the guard, who had followed you inside and stood silently behind you. “Bring the hounds,” you said quietly.

The guard hesitated, his eyes widening slightly. “My lady—”

“Do it,” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. “Now.”

The man nodded and disappeared, the heavy door creaking shut behind him. Ramsay’s grin returned, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze now.

“My hounds won’t hurt me,” he said confidently. “They’re loyal. More loyal than any man.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes fixed on him as the minutes stretched on. When the door opened again, the guards led the hounds into the kennel, their low growls filling the air. The beasts were lean and hungry, their eyes gleaming as they caught Ramsay’s scent.

His confidence wavered, his grin faltering as he shifted against the wall. “They won’t hurt me,” he repeated, his voice less certain now. “They know me.”

You stepped back, your voice cold. “They’re starving, Ramsay. You made sure of that.”

For the first time, you saw fear flicker in his eyes. He turned to the hounds, his voice rising. “Down! Sit! Obey me!”

But the animals didn’t listen. They crept closer, their growls deepening as they bared their teeth.

“Stop!” Ramsay shouted, his voice breaking. “No! Stop!”

You stood still, your chest heaving as the hounds lunged. The sounds of snarling and screaming filled the air, and you turned away, your hands trembling as you walked back toward the door.

The guards closed it behind you, muffling the chaos inside. You leaned against the cold stone wall, your breath shaky but steadying. It was over.

Ramsay Bolton was no more. Winterfell was yours again.

And the wolf had finally found justice.

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