A week had passed since the servant girl had thrown herself from the window when their largest grain deposit caught on fire in the middle of night.
Ramsay woke to the sound of men shouting and flames lighting up his bedchamber. He ran down the stairwell to the courtyard where people had already formed a human chain, passing buckets of water from the well and towards the tower housing the grain storage. The towering inferno seemed to absorb the water they threw at it as effortlessly it did their precious reserves. Ramsay felt the radiating heat scorch his face so he stepped back a few paces, watching in awe as the orange flames lapped away at the building, devouring it.
As he stood idly by while men around him fought desperately to put out the fire, a horrible thought dawned on him. If the grain is destroyed Winterfell will be lost...that is the main reserve burning. A nasty image formed in his head. Sansa Stark bent over his headless body as he was put to the sword. She was picking up his severed head, smacking him across the face and smiling wide. The last thing he saw before darkness took him was her smirk and green eyes that burned into his like wildfire. A chill ran down his spine at the thought of the scenario coming to life, and Ramsay promised himself then and there that he would end his own life before letting the Starks get the pleasure of doing so. "More water!", he roared, "put out the fire! Save the grain!". More men rushed to join the bucket brigade. "Or I will flay the hide of every last one of you bastards!".
It was dawn before the fire had been put out. Ramsay shuffled around aimlessly in the smouldering pile of what once had been large barrels of wheat, barley, dried fruit and wine intended for their constraint during the upcoming winter months. Now it was all reduced to ash and a stinking pile of undefinable mush. Eight men had died as Ramsay's orders had compelled them into the tower to fight the fire from inside. Twenty-one were severely burned and at the end of the day another five men had succumbed to their burn wounds. Ramsay was at best indifferent to the news for he did not concern himself with the lives of petty men. Whisperings among the soldiers began as his absence from the burials did not go unnoticed.
The grain supply status was devastating. Less than one fifth of the provisions were left, barely enough to get them through the coming three months, even if they rationed it to a bare minimum. The messenger, some poor twat who had been unfortunate enough to be the one to deliver the status, shat himself when Ramsay put a knife through his throat out of pure rage. He wiped the man´s blood off on his sleeve and called on the guards, ordering them to get rid of the corpse. "He refused my commands", he told them. The soldiers nodded, exchanged a discrete glance and carried the body away.
There was no disclosure as to how the deposit had caught on fire. Most likely it was sabotage conducted by some of his own soldiers desperate to end the siege. Ramsay cursed his own stupidity, he should have placed guards at the deposits to begin with. In dire need of someone to blame for the catastrophic incident he executed four random men, accusing them of being the saboteurs. He did not bother to produce any evidence concerning the alleged guilt; his word as a Lord was enough and no one dared to question him, at least not to his face.
The following day Jon Snow appeared at the gates once again. This time Sansa was with him, a malignant smile curving her lips as Ramsay stuck his head over the rampart and spotted them. They both looked healthy and complacent like they were thriving in the cold, and Ramsay felt his stomach contract, his heart sink at the sight of them mounted stoically on their steeds. It was a predicament quite unfamiliar to him; with the fire he had lost his only leverage and most likely the Starks either knew that or at least suspected it.
He would, of course, never let his anxiety or insecurities show in front of them; for such indiscretions he was too experienced, and being a part of the Bolton family also made it natural for him to hide any sign of weakness from others. Growing up at the Dreadfort, Ramsay had learned the hard way how vulnerability could claim your life or dignity (or both). It was an eat or be eaten kind of household; a grey-eyed snake pit where it was every snake for himself. The threat of being devoured by someone close to you was always looming there, even if that someone was your own father. There were not enough leeches in Westeros to suck out the bad blood of Roose Bolton or Ramsay himself for that matter - he was after all his father's son, only more devious and much more vicious.
"Hello Wife. Hello Bastard" Ramsay had forced a cheeriness into his voice and his eyes were sparkling a mixture of glee and madness. "Have you come to kneel down before me?". Sansa and Jon exchanged a look of slight amusement. "Not really. We saw the bonfire last night – very pretty", Jon professed, "How much do you have left? It can´t be a whole lot". The frosty tone of his raspy voice made Ramsay swallow hard. He could feel the scrutinizing stares of his own men burning holes in the back of his skull, asking the very same question only not daring to do so out loud. "Enough to wait you out, bastard."
Jon snorted and shook his head. Sansa had a triumphant smirk plastered on her face. She sucked her teeth. "Tsk, tsk, Lord Bolton. We both know you are lying." Her smile widened as if she had put out a snare and Ramsay, her coveted prey, was about to stick his foot right into it. "Our offer still stands: surrender now and your men shall receive free passage home or they can join our ranks. You will receive the gift of a quick death." Jon Snow, ever the honourable twat, leaned forward in his saddle, "I give you my word".
"Never", Ramsay sneered. The Starks were putting on a show of arrogance which irritated him immensely and worst of all was that they now held the advantage to act accordingly. As he felt the trap closing in around him, a rare pang of fear filled his being. He was being watched over carefully by his own men, and it was crucial to his well-being they feared his wrath more than ending the siege. Ramsay had to insure that they remained loyal and did not contemplate handing him over to the Starks in the same manner the Ironborn filth had betrayed Theon Greyjoy at Winterfell. The lack of respect for their Prince had sent Theon right into his little dungeon of horror, and Ramsay did not plan to find himself in a similar situation or any situation involving the Starks deciding his fate, that much was for certain.
"Very well then." Jon Snow raised his voice and it boomed over the wall, "You men who have plead fealty to House Bolton...Why do you fight and die for a man who has no honour!? Who hides behind the walls of our family's home like a coward? Lay down your arms and you can plead fealty to house Stark. We will welcome you with open arms, or you can return home to your own families!". He halted to let the men ponder on the proposal. "If you are honourable men, give us Ramsay Bolton who murdered our brother Rickon Stark!".
Promptly, Ramsay grabbed his bow and shot an arrow at Jon's head. Sansa let out a gasp and her horse reared, giving off a startled neigh. As fast as Ramsay had ever seen a human being move, Tormund Giantsbane blocked Jon's face with his shield. The arrow wedged three inches into the metal but left Snow unharmed. "You little cowardly CUNT!", Tormund roared, spittle flying "I'm gonna rip your guts out through your throat!". In contrast to the wildling's show of rage, Jon himself barely looked startled at the fact that the arrow could have split his head like a melon a mere second ago. "Have you started to come undone, Lord Bolton?", his voice was as calm and flat as ever. Ramsay snorted angrily and threw his bow to the ground "Burn in hell, bastard!"
Raising one hand in the air, Jon Snow gave his party the signal for retreat. Before turning his steed around the Lord Commander's eyes locked on Ramsay's. "There won´t be any more parleys. We will wait until your men either surrender or until Winter has claimed you all. It is entirely up to you whether or not you want to sacrifice your people for nothing. We have shelter, provisions, the woods...you only have the shelter covered and that won´t help you none. Your food stores will run out soon enough, then the sickness will spread and you will all perish. For the sake of the many lives beneath your banner, I hope you come to your senses before that happens", he paused. "Goodbye, Lord Bolton." Jon gave his reins a snap and the party rode off. Sansa, looking over her shoulder sent Ramsay a glower of deadly promise before following the others.
As Ramsay descended from the wall gritting his teeth in silent fury, he could feel tension in the air. The murmurs among the men were no longer covertly shared but out in the open for anyone to hear. Standing around in small clusters some were eyeing him with scepticism, others with poorly repressed anger visible in their tired, starved faces. It has begun, he realised not entirely unafraid, I am loosing control. The time had come for a new plan.
Ramsay retreated to his chambers where he picked out a few pieces of jewellery and gold coins that had belonged to his father and Fat Walda. He bundled it all up in a burlap sack then sent for one of the kitchen maids to bring him a generous serving of fruits, cheese and bread which she returned with shortly thereafter. He took as much as he deemed necessary for his purpose and bundled it up along with the jewellery, careful not to make the sack too heavy. When he had found the weight acceptable, he placed the sack by the door and called for the soldier responsible for provisions. "Give the men as much mead and wine tonight as they can possibly drink", he said with a big smile, "they deserve a treat for all their hard work."