When Roose Bolton's words reached Ramsay, Ramsay's expression cycled through emotions in quick succession—anticipation, disappointment, malice, then calm.
But when he looked again at the heavily armored swordsman, and then at Jon—who stood a full head shorter—Ramsay decided there was no way Jon could win.
Jon was still holding that flimsy-looking staff, the kind you'd expect to snap if you leaned on it too hard.
And more importantly, Ramsay knew his place in all of this. It wasn't up to him to agree or disagree.
So the stakes were set, and the bet was placed.
If Jon lost, he wouldn't just die—Robb would lose the authority he'd fought to build. If Jon won, he'd walk away clean… and take Ramsay's life as payment.
They moved quickly to the makeshift dueling ground. There was no time for a proper arena, so men simply marked a circle on the ground with white chalk, about the size of a large sitting room.
Jon faced the towering swordsman and tightened his grip on the staff.
"I know you're Duke Eddard's bastard," the man said, speaking down to him. "So I won't kill you. If you admit your guilt now, it's not too late."
Jon let out a cold laugh. "Remember this. The man who knocks you down today is stronger than the Sword of the Morning."
Arthur Dayne's name—legendary swordsman, the king's finest—was known across the Seven Kingdoms. Hearing Jon run his mouth like that only made the armored man look down on him harder.
A kid who'd barely come of age, still green as summer grass, and he dares compare himself to Arthur Dayne?
Fine. All he had to do was put this bastard on the ground. After that, everything he wanted would fall into his hands.
He growled and started forward—
But Jon moved first.
To everyone's shock, Jon chose to attack.
Theon watched with his stomach tight. He used to pick on Jon just to feel important, but lately—somehow—Jon was easier to respect. Theon knew Jon had a plan, and he couldn't deny he admired it.
Robb sat in the center, face controlled, but his hands clenched inside his sleeves.
Off to the side, Bran shouted, "Come on, Jon! Don't lose!"
"Hodor!"
Bran didn't really understand what a trial by combat meant—that it was a fight where someone might not walk away. Maybe he still didn't understand what "life and death" truly meant at all.
To him, it was simple: Jon just had to win.
The armored swordsman staggered for a moment under the surprise rush, but he recovered quickly. His strikes were big and brutal, forcing Jon to retreat again and again.
The Dreadfort soldiers seized the chance to show off, shouting and roaring to pump their man up.
Then they started to realize something was wrong.
Jon's footwork was fast—too fast. He kept giving ground, but he always slipped away at the last moment, then snapped back in with counters.
"This kid's quick," Greatjon Umber said, yanking at his beard with excitement. "Moves like a damn monkey."
Even Rickard Karstark watched more closely now, his interest growing.
Maybe the boy isn't insane. Maybe he's just that confident.
"I get it!" Theon blurted, suddenly excited. "That's why Jon isn't wearing armor—he's burning the guy's stamina!"
The armored man's swings were powerful, but they cost him. After a dozen or so exchanges, his movements visibly slowed.
Robb shot Theon a look that said, You idiot—don't say that out loud.
Theon realized he'd screwed up and dipped his head, embarrassed.
Too late. Ramsay heard him.
"Ser Tuke, careful!" Ramsay shouted. "He's trying to wear you down!"
A number of people frowned. To them, fighting that way felt cheap.
"Who's this little bastard?" Greatjon roared, pointing at Ramsay. The shout alone made Ramsay's legs go weak.
Standing beside Robb, Roose Bolton said flatly, "He's my bastard."
"Oh," Greatjon said. "The Leech Lord's bastard. That explains it." Then he laughed loudly.
The crowd's attention snapped back to the duel.
Warned now, the swordsman stopped pressing forward. He shifted into a defensive posture, trying to recover his breath.
"Almost fell for it, kid," he said. "Smart. And your footwork's not bad."
Jon's mouth curled. "You really think I was just trying to tire you out?"
The man's gut sank.
Jon's voice stayed calm. "I've never been to war. I wanted to see what a man who's actually fought and killed can do."
"Now that I've seen it—nothing special."
He lifted the staff slightly. "My turn."
Jon surged in.
The swordsman raised his blade to block the staff's sweep, but Jon closed the distance anyway. The staff hammered into the man's body in a tight, relentless rhythm.
Even through muscle and armor, it hurt. Sweat broke across the man's face.
That was exactly why Jon chose a staff instead of a sword.
Soft armor and chain were light and flexible, but against blunt impact they did almost nothing.
Thud-thud-thud—like a hard, driving beat.
When the swordsman lowered his greatsword to protect his legs, Jon planted the staff, vaulted his weight, and kicked him in the head.
Spit flew—threaded with blood.
The spectators exploded with noise.
They hadn't expected fighting could look like that—so creative, so vicious, so fast.
Robb and Theon clenched their fists tighter, not from fear now, but from excitement.
Where did Jon learn this?
If it came from the Wall… since when did the Wall have someone like this?
"Go, Jon!" Bran yelled, face flushed with excitement.
Good thing Hodor was steady as a mountain, or Bran would've bounced right off his shoulders.
"That's the stuff!" Greatjon bellowed, delighted. "That's Ned's blood, all right!"
He was clearly enjoying the chaos, and seeing Bolton's face darken made it even sweeter—like biting into something filthy and realizing you liked it anyway.
In truth, Bolton's expression barely changed. His mood sank, but his face stayed controlled.
Ramsay didn't have that kind of restraint.
Watching the swordsman get battered without a clean answer, Ramsay's heartbeat sped up until it made him feel sick.
Useless. You can't even beat a kid holding a stick?
And the more impressive Jon looked, the more unbalanced Ramsay felt.
They're both bastards—so why does Jon get to look unstoppable?
By now, the armored man had almost no ability to fight back. Without even realizing it, he'd been driven to the edge of the chalk circle.
This wasn't a match where stepping out meant you lost.
The only way it ended was when someone went down.
Jon attacked again—then, to everyone's disbelief, he jumped onto the man's back and looped the staff across his throat, wrenching it tight.
The swordsman's vision went dark.
His huge body crashed to the ground.
One second. Two. Three.
Then the signs became obvious: his eyes rolled back, and foam gathered at his mouth.
Ramsay felt like the ground dropped out from under him.
And in that moment, he realized Jon wasn't watching the fight anymore.
Jon was staring straight at him.