Beneath Winterfell, the wind and snow howled, but they couldn't drown out the dull thud of weapons piercing flesh.
Ramsay Bolton's madness lasted less than fifteen minutes.
When his proud scimitar was firmly trapped by an old Umber soldier's shield,
and another longsword immediately pierced his warhorse's neck, the frenzy in his eyes was instantly replaced by extreme terror.
He tumbled clumsily from his dying warhorse, rolling several times in the cold, muddy snow before finally coming to a stop.
"Protect me! All of you, get over here! Protect me!"
He shrieked like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
Then he scrambled backward on all fours, trying to hide among his soldiers' ranks.
The Dreadfort soldiers around him had faces filled with bewilderment and despair.
What had they just seen?
The "future king in the north" who had just promised them land and women was utterly routed at the first encounter, and was now desperately trying to escape?
And they, for this coward's ambition, had to face elite Northern troops, several times their number and well-rested!
Morale completely collapsed at this moment!
"Pfft!"
A Dreadfort soldier had just raised his weapon, hesitating whether to surrender, when a long spear pierced through his chest.
The army personally led by Ned Stark wouldn't give them any time to think.
This was an act of revenge, and also a judgment.
"Kill them all if they don't surrender!"
Ned's order was cold and cruel.
He didn't charge into battle himself; he merely stood behind the lines, coldly watching this one-sided slaughter.
His personal guards beside him threw down the Flayed Man Banners dropped by The Dreadfort soldiers and trampled them repeatedly with horse hooves.
Rams watched Ned's soldiers surge forward like a tide, getting closer and closer to him, and he was scared out of his wits.
He grabbed a young soldier by the collar and shoved him violently forward.
"Stop them! Stop them for me!"
The young soldier didn't even have time to let out a cry of surprise before three or four longswords instantly pierced his body.
Rams used this momentary diversion to scramble behind a supply wagon.
His eyes, like those of a startled mouse, frantically darted around, searching for any possible escape route.
However, just as he thought he might survive for a moment, a dark figure suddenly burst out of the melee on the flank with unnatural speed, heading straight for the wagon where he was hiding!
It was a woman.
She wore ill-fitting leather armor, held two blood-stained daggers, and her messy black hair danced wildly in the wind.
Her face was covered in blood and madness, but her eyes were locked onto Rams.
"Go!"
The woman's voice was hoarse, yet filled with madness and determination.
She didn't look at Rams; she merely stood in front of the wagon like a protective mother wolf.
With her slender body, she faced several charging House Stark soldiers.
It was Myranda.
The daughter of the Dreadfort Kennel Master.
And Rams's most loyal and most pathological playmate.
She had no exquisite martial arts; every one of her swings seemed so clumsy.
But there was no fear in her eyes, only a desperate resolve to perish together.
She used her body to ram into their shields, bit at the arms that held their swords, and furiously stabbed her daggers into any gaps in the enemy's armor.
A Stark soldier was caught off guard and had his neck armor pierced by her dagger, blood gushing out.
But the next second, a heavy hammer landed on her body.
"Bang!"
Myranda's body trembled violently.
Blood continuously gushed from the corners of her mouth, but she still stood firm, not retreating a single step.
Her eyes, which had already begun to lose focus, still gazed in Rams's direction, her lips moving, as if she wanted to say something.
But in the end, only a barely audible gasp escaped.
Ned Stark watched this scene quietly from afar.
His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.
What was the relationship between this woman and Rams?
"Capture both of them alive."
Ned gave a new order to the Messenger beside him.
He had a hunch that keeping these two alive might be more useful than killing them directly.
The battle ended quickly.
Under the double blow of absolute power suppression and collapsing morale, the remaining Dreadfort soldiers threw down their weapons.
They knelt in the snow, hands raised, choosing to surrender.
Ramsay Bolton was also dragged out from under the wagon by several tall Umber soldiers.
He was covered in mud, like a wild dog with a broken spine, still cursing incessantly.
"Let go of me! You bastards! My father is Roose Bolton!"
"If you dare touch me, he will flay all of you!"
"Slap!"
A soldier stepped forward and a resounding slap directly cut off the latter half of Rams's sentence.
"Your daddy?"
The soldier grabbed his hair and pressed his face into the cold snow.
"Your daddy is me now."
In front of Winterfell, three thousand Dreadfort soldiers, like lambs to the slaughter, were herded onto an open snowy field.
Around them were Stark soldiers with drawn blades.
Ned Stark rode his horse slowly towards them.
He removed his helmet, his resolute face looking particularly stern under the gloomy sky.
"According to the ancient laws of the North,"
"the only fate for a traitor is beheading."
These words made all the surrendered soldiers turn pale, their bodies trembling uncontrollably.
Some even began to regret why they hadn't fought to the death just now.
Some soldiers even decided to fight for their lives now, thinking that dying while taking someone with them would be a win!
"However,"
But Ned's tone shifted.
"You are also children of the North."
"You were merely deceived by that bastard Ramsay Bolton."
"Lord Lynn once told me that the true enemies are the nobles who sit in warm castles and incite wars, not you soldiers who bleed on the battlefield."
"Therefore, I have decided to give you a chance."
Ned's gaze swept over the faces below, filled with fear and hope.
"Put down all your weapons, take off your armor, and cast aside your hatred."
"I will temporarily detain you, and after this war ends, I will personally judge your crimes."
"The guilty will be punished, the innocent can go home."
These words, like a heavenly melody, gave all the despairing soldiers hope of survival.
They immediately began to strip off their armor and throw their weapons far away.
In the face of death, any resistance seemed so pale and powerless.
Ned watched all of this calmly, his eyes showing no ripples.
He had changed.
During his time with Lynn, he had learned the most important lesson.
Unnecessary mercy to enemies is the cruelest betrayal of one's own people.
Honor is important, but the survival of his family and the peace of the North are far more important than those illusory creeds.
If he could eliminate three thousand potential threats without losing a single soldier, using some less honorable methods,
then… he was willing to bear this sin.
Soon, the three thousand Dreadfort soldiers were stripped down to their thin undergarments.
Then they were herded by Stark soldiers into a huge trench that had been dug outside Winterfell.
The trench was deep enough to reach their chests.
The soldiers huddled inside, shivering in the biting cold wind, but their faces showed the relief of having survived a disaster.
Ned rode his horse to the edge of the trench, looking down at them.
"My lord, when can we come out?"
A bolder soldier looked up and asked.
Ned did not answer him.
He merely raised his hand and gave the final, most ruthless order to the archers who were already prepared behind him.
"Fire!"
"What?!"
The soldiers in the trench were all stunned.
They couldn't believe their ears.
However, what answered them was an overwhelming rain of arrows!
"Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—!"
Piercing sounds filled the air as countless arrows, like the scythes of death, mercilessly harvested the unarmed lives in the trench.
Screams, curses, and pleas for mercy instantly erupted.
But none of this could stop the slaughter from continuing.
After one volley of arrows, there was a second, a third... until there was not a single person left standing in the trench, until blood stained the entire trench dark red, did Ned slowly lower his hand.
"Fill it in."
Two cold words brought a bloody end to this betrayal... In a hidden dense forest in The Riverlands.
[Killed Dreadfort Soldier, Experience +3]
[Killed Dreadfort Soldier, Experience +3]
...[Killed Dreadfort Knight, Experience +10]
[Experience +9215]
[Current Experience: 26217.2]
A series of system prompts flashed before Lynn's eyes.
Lynn's lips curved into a satisfied smile
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