Ramsay Bolton laughed aloud on the back of his galloping horse.
The wind and snow lashed his face, but could not cool the burning ecstasy in his heart.
Behind him, three thousand soldiers from the Dreadfort followed closely.
They had moved swiftly, suffering almost no casualties.
For Ramsay Bolton, that was good news.
Their horses' hooves shattered the snow beneath them-and their last remaining reverence for House Stark.
Fleeing?
No, this was not fleeing.
This was triumph!
A gamble with the future of the entire North at stake!
"My lord! Are we... are we really going back to the Dreadfort?"
A loyal knight caught up with him, a trace of unease in his voice.
"Back to the Dreadfort?"
Ramsay reined in his horse and looked at his subordinate as though he were an idiot.
"What would we go back for?"
"To wait for the Starks to settle the score?"
He stuck out his tongue and licked his cracked lips, a sickly gleam flickering in his pale eyes.
Once he had chosen this course, it had become a fight to the death. There was no other path left.
"That fool Robb is probably surrounded by the Vale army by now, too busy saving his own skin."
"And that self-important Lynn-does he think he's accounted for everything?"
"He's leading those monsters of his straight to their deaths against the walls of the Bloody Gate!"
"Every main force in the North, every lord-they're all in the South!"
Ramsay's voice rose, charged with a spellbinding power.
"Do you know what that means?"
Ramsay abruptly pointed north.
"It means Winterfell is nothing but an undefended brothel now!"
"And inside are some of the noblest women in all of Westeros!"
His gaze swept over every soldier's face, watching the flames of greed slowly kindle in their