The battle was over.
Jon stood in the blood-soaked snow, his chest heaving with exhaustion, staring down at Ramsay Bolton's lifeless body. The satisfaction he had imagined did not come; there was no joy in his victory, only a hollow sense of relief. Ramsay was dead, but the cost had been unimaginable.
The battlefield stretched out before him, a grim reminder of what had been lost. Bodies littered the ground, both friend and foe, the blood of the fallen mingling with the snow to create a gruesome tapestry of death. The cries of the wounded echoed in the distance, and the once-proud banners of the Northern houses lay tattered, fluttering weakly in the wind.
Jon wiped the blood from Ice and sheathed the blade, his gaze drifting to the horizon where the sun was beginning to set. The sky was a muted grey, as if mourning the loss of so many lives. The air was thick with the stench of battle, the coppery scent of blood and the acrid smoke from distant fires.
He turned, his body aching, his mind weary. Ghost trotted up to him, the direwolf's white fur stained red from the fray. Jon knelt down, burying his hand in Ghost's thick coat, taking comfort in the presence of his loyal companion. "We did it," he whispered, though the words felt empty. "It's over."
But as he stood and looked around at the devastation, Jon knew it wasn't truly over. The North had been reclaimed, but the wounds of this war would take years to heal—if they ever truly could.
A figure approached through the haze of the battlefield, and Jon turned to see Sansa making her way toward him. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and distant, as though she were still processing everything that had happened. She wore a grim expression, her hands stained with blood—some of it her own, but most of it belonging to their enemies.
"You killed him," Sansa said quietly as she reached Jon, her gaze fixed on Ramsay's lifeless body. There was no triumph in her voice, only a quiet, haunted tone that spoke of the horrors they had endured. "It's over."
Jon nodded, though he could see the same emptiness in her eyes that he felt in his own heart. "It had to be done."
Sansa's lips pressed into a thin line as she stared down at Ramsay. "I thought I would feel… something. Some kind of satisfaction." She shook her head, her auburn hair catching the fading light. "But I don't. He's dead, and I feel nothing."
Jon placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch gentle. "That's because this wasn't just about him. It was about all of us. About reclaiming our home, our honor." He paused, his voice softening. "But nothing can undo what's been done."
Sansa nodded, though her gaze lingered on Ramsay for a moment longer before she turned away. "Winterfell is ours again," she said, her voice stronger now. "But what do we do with it? The North is broken, Jon. Our people are scattered, our allies dead or dying."
Jon looked toward the distant towers of Winterfell, now just visible through the haze. The ancient castle stood as a symbol of their victory, but also of the immense task ahead of them. Rebuilding the North would take more than just reclaiming their home—it would take time, patience, and the will to unite their fractured people.
"We rebuild," Jon said, though the weight of that responsibility settled heavily on his shoulders. "We honor the dead, we care for the living, and we make sure this never happens again."
Sansa glanced at him, her eyes searching his face for some kind of reassurance. "And what about you, Jon? You've fought so hard for this. What now?"
Jon hesitated, unsure of his own answer. His life had been defined by battle, by duty. But now, standing here in the aftermath, he found himself questioning what his place was in the world. He had never wanted to be a lord or a king, and yet here he was, thrust into the role of a leader whether he liked it or not.
"I don't know," he admitted quietly. "But I do know that we have to move forward. For the sake of the North, for the sake of our family."
Sansa nodded, her expression softening slightly. "We'll figure it out. Together."
They stood in silence for a moment longer, the weight of the battle pressing down on them both. But even as they stood amidst the carnage, there was a sense of hope—a glimmer of a future where the North could rise from the ashes of war.
Just then, Davos Seaworth appeared through the mist, his face grim but determined. "Lord Snow," he said, using the title with a formality that felt strange given their circumstances. "The men are gathering the wounded, but we've lost a lot of good people today."
Jon nodded, his throat tight with the knowledge of how many lives had been sacrificed for this victory. "We'll honor them. They gave everything for the North."
Davos hesitated for a moment before speaking again. "And what of Ramsay's men? The ones who surrendered?"
Jon's face hardened. "Take them prisoner. We'll decide their fate once we've dealt with the dead."
Davos gave a sharp nod, then glanced at Sansa, his expression softening slightly. "Lady Stark, I'm glad to see you're safe."
Sansa gave him a tight smile, though there was little warmth in her eyes. "Thank you, Ser Davos."
With that, Davos turned and made his way back toward the remnants of the Northern forces, leaving Jon and Sansa alone once more.
"We should go back to Winterfell," Jon said after a moment, though the idea of returning to the castle felt almost surreal after all that had happened. "There's work to be done."
Sansa nodded, though her gaze drifted once more to the battlefield. "Yes," she said softly. "But first, we say goodbye to the dead."
Together, they began the long walk through the snow, weaving between the fallen soldiers—men they had fought alongside, and men they had fought against. Jon's heart ached with the weight of it all, but he knew that this was only the beginning.
Winter had come to the North, but so too had a new beginning. And in the cold, harsh aftermath of war, Jon and Sansa would have to rebuild—not just their home, but their lives.
As they made their way back toward Winterfell, the wind howled through the trees, carrying with it the ghosts of the past. But even amidst the cold and the death, there was a spark of warmth, a flicker of hope that refused to be extinguished.
The North had suffered. But it would endure.