The camp, which had just seen a small clash, was unnaturally quiet now.
The north wind snapped the Dreadfort's flayed-man banners overhead, making the whole place feel sharper—meaner. Amid all that red, Winterfell's direwolf banner looked strangely alone.
Even so, the crowd kept growing.
Once word spread, lords from other parts of the host sent men over just to watch. The more people gathered, the more tense Robb became.
In his fifteen years, he'd never seen how Ned handled a public standoff in a war camp—how a lord showed authority with everyone watching.
But during that earlier stretch when the bannermen had suddenly started "behaving," Jon had already walked Robb through a plan.
All Robb had to do at the end was chew everyone out.
Yes—everyone.
It was something Jon had learned in another life: if you're in charge, you don't single one person out and vent at them. You lay into the whole room. People fear you, but no one feels uniquely targeted enough to hate you for it.
Robb quickly confirmed the basics of what happened, then spoke.
"This started because Chasen insulted Jon first," Robb said, "but Jon killing him was an overreaction, and it's still against the law."
"Jon—do you still claim you're innocent, and demand a trial by combat?"
Jon kept his face serious, but Robb could see the worry in his eyes.
This wasn't a scuffle. This was a straight, formal fight to the death.
Chasen was the name of the loud young noble Jon had struck down.
"Yes, Lord Stark," Jon said. "I believe I'm innocent. Let the gods prove it."
Roose Bolton's smile deepened, though his voice stayed smooth.
"Jon, you left the Night's Watch because you wanted to avenge Lord Eddard," Bolton said. "I understand that kind of anger."
"If you apologize to Chasen's family, we can delay your punishment until after the war."
Bolton's "generosity" earned approving murmurs around them.
Even Rickard Karstark seemed to warm to him slightly.
But Jon didn't miss what was happening. Bolton's retreat wasn't mercy—it was leverage, and it made Jon more wary.
This old bastard isn't just perceptive, Jon thought. His politics are razor-sharp.
Bolton clearly wanted the trial by combat to happen.
If Jon lost, Bolton would seize the moral and public high ground, and Robb would be pressured into handing over real command authority.
Bolton just had no idea what kind of opponent Jon actually was.
Jon's expression didn't change. "Thank you for your concern, Lord Bolton. But if the gods say I'm guilty, then I'll pay with my life."
To the crowd, Bolton looked magnanimous.
Jon, by contrast, looked stubborn to the point of madness—and that didn't win him many friends.
Bolton smiled inwardly, then turned to Robb.
"Well then," he said, "if he insists, let the gods judge. My lord—choose the time for the trial."
Robb looked at Jon.
Jon answered immediately. "The army is about to march. My issue shouldn't delay anything. We do it now."
That drew stares from all sides.
Ramsay watched Jon's "heated" stance and sneered to himself. Fine—walk into it.
With Jon pushing and Bolton happy to oblige, Robb nodded.
Men hurried to clear a space and mark out a fighting ground.
During the scramble, Theon leaned in, uneasy.
"Jon… are you sure about this?"
The Dreadfort had brought four thousand men. Among them, there would be plenty of killers.
Theon had seen Jon fight, and he knew Jon was strong—but this still felt like stepping in front of a wagon.
Jon glanced toward Robb, who was speaking quietly with several nobles.
It didn't matter.
"Theon," Jon said, "in a minute, no matter what I say, you just make sure Robb agrees."
"We're going to shut down Bolton's fantasy of taking command of the whole host—completely. The army has to stay in our hands."
Theon swallowed, then nodded. "All right. I get it."
The ground was ready quickly, and Roose Bolton selected a champion from the Dreadfort.
The instant the man stepped forward, most people decided Jon was dead.
He was a massive, heavily armored swordsman.
Near \(1.9\) meters tall, and with boots and helm he looked closer to \(2\). In his hands was a two-handed greatsword that caught the light like it could split stone.
Every major house had a man like this—if they were lucky.
In battle, heavy sword-and-armor brutes were meant to punch holes in formations. They swung those huge blades, smashed through armor, and carved out space in seconds.
Warriors built for that role were rare.
You could go a hundred men deep and never find one.
And this one had the sense to wear chainmail—more flexible than plate, and far better at resisting cuts.
When Robb saw the champion Bolton had chosen, he couldn't hide his worry.
Around them, soldiers immediately fell into the camp's favorite pastime: betting.
But nobody bet on Jon winning.
They bet on how long Jon would last.
"I'll call it—three passes!" someone shouted. "That bastard's dead in three!"
"Don't sell him short," another argued. "He's been beating men half to death for weeks. I say ten!"
Silver stags and copper stars clinked onto the ground.
A few gold dragons gleamed among them.
Then a soldier felt someone shove past him and turned, annoyed—only to find a "giant" towering behind him, even taller than Bolton's champion.
"Hodor!"
Men scattered out of the way, and from behind the giant's head, a small boy's face popped into view.
"I bet Jon wins," Bran said.
He tossed down several gold dragons.
"Who's that?" people muttered—until Winterfell guards protecting Bran stated his name.
After that, no one argued. They just stared at the gold and started doing mental math about how they'd split it.
The soldiers finished setting positions, and both sides stepped onto the field.
Men brought weapons forward.
Bolton's champion lumbered to the center like an ape stepping into an arena, and Dreadfort men roared.
"Rip him apart!"
"Kill him!"
Ramsay had promised the champion that if he won, Ramsay would petition Bolton for more land to reward him.
And with this many eyes on him, the man wanted glory.
Theon moved to hand Jon a sword—but Jon shook his head and tapped his long staff instead.
Then Jon raised his voice to Robb.
"Lord Stark—I can tell Chasen was acting on Ramsay's orders."
"I'll use only my staff. If I win, that means Ramsay is guilty."
"And I want him put to death."
"Jon!" Robb snapped, alarmed.
Around the circle, the same thought ran through people's heads: this kid has lost his mind.
Roose Bolton let out a low, contemptuous sound.
Rickard Karstark clicked his tongue, thinking: what kind of woman did Ned find, to produce a son this reckless?
Then a booming laugh came from beside Robb.
"Hah! It's been a long time since I've seen a young man this entertaining."
It was Greatjon Umber, who'd only arrived yesterday with his men.
His seat was Last Hearth, the farthest out—so he'd reached Winterfell the latest.
Theon hesitated, then leaned close to Robb and whispered something in his ear.
Robb knew Jon wasn't usually impulsive. After a beat, he turned toward Bolton.
Bolton didn't know what had been said, but no matter how he looked at it, the situation favored him.
He thought for a moment, then said, "Insulting a man's mother is shameful."
"If Jon truly wins, then it's the gods choosing to punish Ramsay. I won't object."