In front of everyone, Jon walked straight toward the most obnoxious young noble in the crowd.
The boy still wore that smug, pleased-with-himself look as he watched Jon approach. But as the distance between them shrank, a bad feeling started crawling up his spine.
It suddenly didn't feel like a bastard walking up to another bastard.
It felt like a predator closing in on prey.
Jon took one step after another, steady and deliberate, his face blank.
The young noble tried desperately to hold his posture—because he knew Ramsay was behind him, and Roose Bolton might be close as well.
"I can't back down," he told himself. "I can't. I won't."
And yet—
His body betrayed him. He took an unconscious step backward.
Fear seeped into his bones like poison.
Watching from the side, Roose Bolton realized what was rolling off Jon wasn't anger or embarrassnt.
It was pure intent to kill.
He's going to murder soone?
Bolton's eyes narrowed. If Jon killed a man in public, then taking command of the host afterward would be easy.
A single life traded for the Northern army's command? That was an absurdly good bargain.
Jon's black staff snapped out in a flat sweep, fast as lightning, and smashed into the thick-necked boy's forehead.
Crack.
The sound of wood against skull was shockingly crisp—like a drumstick striking the rim of a drum, only heavier, duller.
That sharp crack landed like a cutoff signal.
The shouting died instantly, leaving only the wind.
The young man's vision went dark. His body slackened, then collapsed like boneless at, crumpling to the ground.
Thud.
The loudmouth was dead.
Before Bolton could even step in, Ramsay rushed forward and shouted, "Jon Snow! You dare kill a man—bind him!"
At Ramsay's command, soldiers surged in.
Only a small portion of Jon's Winterfell n tried to block them. Beating thugs felt good, and it even earned them the townsfolk's gratitude—but killing changed everything.
Jon didn't argue. This was the downside of not having a true inner circle of his own.
Real loyal n stood with you no matter what. These soldiers were Robb's, loaned to Jon for a job.
As ropes ca toward him, Jon pointed at Ramsay and said, "He insulted my mother."
"That still doesn't justify murder!" Ramsay's voice sounded righteously furious, but inside he was thrilled.
This was a clean win.
"He didn't deserve to die!"
"We want justice!"
"Justice!"
"Punish him!"
The soldiers Ramsay had planted in advance started yelling on cue, fanning the noise.
Rickard Karstark watched Jon and slowly shook his head.
Bolton, seeing the prey fully inside the trap, said smoothly, "My apologies, Lord Rickard. I need to handle this. The man your Lord Stark's bastard killed was one of my bannern."
Rickard gave a small nod.
He thought Jon had gone too far too. If you'd already left the Wall, you should keep your head down and live carefully.
If you dared kill in front of the whole host, you'd better be ready to pay for it.
Then Rickard moved toward Ramsay and Jon.
"Lord of the Dreadfort, Roose Bolton, is here!"
At the announcent, soldiers stepped back and opened a lane.
Jon looked at the man approaching: around forty, with a sickly pale face. You could even see bluish veins under his lower eyelids.
Bolton looked younger than his real age, and the contrast of dark eyes against pale skin made him feel like a walking conspiracy.
"My lord," Ramsay said.
Ramsay still wasn't publicly acknowledged as Bolton's heir, so he couldn't call him "Father" in front of everyone.
Bolton nodded, seeming pleased with him.
Then he glanced at the dead young man and said flatly, "Bind the murderer."
With their lord present, the Dreadfort soldiers grew bolder.
Jon's Winterfell n stopped resisting entirely.
That was when Jon spoke up, voice clear. "I'm enforcing order here under the authority of Robb Stark, acting lord of Winterfell. What right do you have to arrest ?"
Bolton sneered. "Jon, you killed a man. Did Robb authorize you to kill?"
To Bolton, Jon invoking Robb sounded like an animal's last thrash.
"So, Lord Bolton thinks I'm guilty?" Jon asked.
"Are you not?" Ramsay cut in. "You should hang—no, you should be strangled to death!"
Hanging was for commoners. Beheading was a privilege reserved for nobles.
Off to the side, Rickard watched Jon and noticed sothing strange.
Jon was calm.
Standing in the eye of the storm, he looked more like Ned Stark than ever, and the resemblance hit Rickard with a wave of uneasy nostalgia.
But Jon's trouble was real. This could easily end in life for life.
Rickard found it a pity—yet not sothing he could control. Whatever warmth he felt toward Jon ca from the face alone.
As the ropes were about to go on him, Jon fixed his gray eyes on Roose Bolton and said, "If you claim I'm guilty—then I demand a trial by combat."
Trial by combat.
Ramsay's pupils tightened.
The crowd erupted.
Trial by combat was an ancient Westerosi custom. If soone was accused—or found guilty—he could demand the gods decide by single combat.
Win, and you walked free. Lose, and you died on the spot.
It sounded less like justice and more like a legal way to gamble with steel.
To Jon, it was also one more tool nobles used to crush people beneath them.
In a trial by combat, a noble could na a champion to fight in his place—like when Tyrion chose Oberyn Martell.
Usually, it was sothing you demanded only when you'd been forced into a corner.
And Jon wasn't there yet. If Robb stepped in, Jon could probably keep his head.
Bolton looked surprised.
No wonder Robb used him to do all the dirty work—he really is that reckless.
Still, Jon's demand made both Bolton and Ramsay excited.
If they beat him in open combat, they'd own the moral advantage completely.
Robb's whole "use Jon as a club to fix discipline" could be painted as sothing that offended gods and n alike.
And then Bolton could press harder for what he wanted.
To Bolton, command of the host was practically waving at him.
But he still needed to posture a little—Rickard was watching.
"Jon," Bolton said, "think carefully. Blades don't have eyes. A trial by combat can't be withdrawn, and you may be killed."
"If you confess instead, you might still keep your life."
Jon answered evenly. "If the gods believe I'm guilty for killing a man who sared my mother's na, then I'll die for it."
His words hit the air like a hamr strike, and even the northern wind seed to carry them.
Ramsay smiled coldly to himself.
Fine, then die.
Just then, a new announcent rang out.
"Robb Stark is here!"
Everyone turned.
Escorted by guards, Robb stepped into view.
It was the first ti the Young Wolf had publicly shown himself since the host gathered.
Robb was tall, handso, and carried himself well. In Rickard's eyes, the only flaw was that his auburn hair didn't look particularly Northern.
Even so, everyone bowed.
Bolton didn't look impressed.
If Robb tried to protect Jon at all costs today, Bolton thought, the outco would be simple.
Robb would lose face in front of the entire North.
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