Beneath Winterfell, the wind and snow howled, but could not drown out the dull sound of blades sinking into flesh.
Ramsay Bolton's frenzy lasted less than a quarter of an hour.
An Umber veteran locked his prized curved sword firmly against a shield.
When another longsword pierced his horse's neck a moment later, the madness in his eyes gave way to utter terror.
He tumbled off the dying horse, rolling several times through the cold, muddy snow before finally coming to a stop.
"Protect me! Get in there, you fucking bastards! Protect me!"
He shrieked like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
Then he scrambled backward on his hands and knees, trying to crawl back into his soldiers' ranks.
The Dreadfort soldiers around him wore expressions of bewilderment and despair.
What had they just witnessed?
The "future King in the North," who had only just promised them land and women, had been routed in the very first clash and was now desperate to flee for his life?
Yet they were supposed to fight rested northern veterans several times their number, all for this coward's ambition!
In that instant, their morale collapsed completely!
Squ elch!
A Dreadfort soldier had just raised his weapon, hesitating over whether to surrender, when a spear pierced his chest and burst out the other side.
The army Ned Stark personally commanded would give them no time to think.
This was vengeance, and it was judgment.
"Kill everyone who refuses to surrender!"
Ned's order was cold and ruthless.
He did not charge into battle himself, but stood behind the ranks, watching the one-sided slaughter with cold eyes.
Beside him, his guards tossed the Flayed Man banners abandoned by the Dreadfort soldiers onto the ground and trampled them repeatedly beneath their horses' hooves.
Watching Ned's soldiers