[Winterfell]

In the stark chambers of Winterfell, Ramsay Bolton's fury was palpable as he stared down at the crimson scorpion emblazoned on the parchment before him. His father, Roose Bolton, spoke in hushed tones, recounting the grim news from the south. The Dreadfort, the ancestral seat of House Bolton, had been wrested from their grasp, along with the seat Ramsay had so treacherously claimed through his marriage to Donella Hornwood. The unknown enemy had struck swiftly and without mercy, leaving in their wake a banner that bore no known house, only the haunting image of a crimson scorpion on a field of gold.

Ramsay's mind raced as he digested the information, his thoughts turning to the impending arrival of Stannis Baratheon and his army. The loss of the Dreadfort and Hornwood was a strategic blow, one that could leave them vulnerable to the forces marching towards them. His father's pallor spoke volumes of their precarious situation. The crimson scorpion was a symbol that seemed to taunt them from the shadows.

"We must bolster our defenses," Ramsay growled through clenched teeth, his eyes never leaving the offensive emblem. "We cannot let these pretenders claim what is rightfully ours."

Roose nodded, his gaze sharp. "Agreed. But we must also find out who they are and why they dare to fly such a banner. We have enemies enough without adding more to our list."

Ramsay's thoughts churned like a storm. The crimson scorpion was not the sigil of any house they had encountered in their conquests.

Could these be the men who prevented him from capturing Moat Cailin?

He hadn't seen any sigil there. They had come under siege almost immediately.

Ramsay Bolton's fists clenched around the parchment as he digested the news. "We need to find out who they are and what they want," he spat. "This crimson scorpion... it's a taunt, a challenge. They dare to take what is ours!"

Roose Bolton's eyes narrowed as he contemplated the implications. "Indeed. And we must do so quickly, before they grow bold enough to threaten our position here."

"What about Stannis?" Ramsay asked.

"Our spies have seen no sign of his fleet or banners," Roose replied. "It seems we face two enemies now, one we know and one we do not."

Ramsay's eyes flashed with rage. "We shall crush them both," he vowed. "First the scorpions, then Stannis."

"We must be careful. This crimson scorpion... it could be a trap, a lure to split our forces."

Roose Bolton's words were a sobering reminder of the precarious dance of war. Ramsay knew his father was right, but the loss of his newfound lands and the Dreadfort, the very bastion of House Bolton's power, stung like a fresh wound. His thoughts grew darker as he contemplated the treachery that had led to this moment.

"We will find them," Ramsay seethed. "And when we do, I will make them regret ever crossing our path." His eyes fell on the map of the realm, his finger tracing the path from Winterfell to the Dreadfort. The crimson scorpion had struck at the very heart of their power.

Roose Bolton's expression remained stoic. "We must not underestimate these new adversaries," he cautioned. "They have already proven themselves capable of taking strongholds that we thought secure."

Ramsay's anger burned hotter than the fires of the gods. "Father, I will not sit here while some unknown pretenders claim what is rightfully mine! We will march on them, crush them beneath our boots, and claim their heads for our battlements!"

"What is yours? Do you forget you will soon have a sibling? A brother, perhaps."

Ramsay's father, Roose Bolton, spoke the words like a dagger to the heart, reminding his son of the fragility of his position. Ramsay's grip on the parchment tightened, his knuckles whitening. The mention of Stannis and his impending arrival was a stark reminder of the true threat they faced, one that could not be underestimated.

"You would do well to sire a child on the Stark girl," his father continued.

Arya Stark, Lord Eddard's youngest daughter, was now Ramsay's wife, and he planned to father a child, preferably a son on her so he could claim Winterfell.

What they didn't know... the girl they had was not Arya Stark. She was Jeyne Poole, the daughter of the former steward.

The real Arya Stark was on Driftmark, with Princess Alysanne Targaryen.

Safe.

The loss of the ancient Bolton stronghold felt almost poetic as they stood in Winterfell, the ancient stronghold of House Stark, which they had stolen by betraying their King.

The crimson scorpion banner was a mysterious emblem that seemed to whisper of a new threat emerging from the shadows. It was unnerving, like a silent predator that had infiltrated their ranks.

As the Boltons plotted their response, the irony was not lost on them. It was almost poetic that as they held the usurped seat of the Starks in the frozen North, their own ancestral home, the Dreadfort, had been taken from them.

The initial betrayal had been that of Theon Greyjoy, the boy who had claimed Winterfell as his own.

But it was the Boltons, Ramsay in particular, who had truly twisted the knife.

The initial betrayal of House Stark had indeed been Theon's, but it was the treachery of the Boltons that had sealed their fate.

Theon's folly had been his belief that he could claim a seat that wasn't his, a fate that had also befallen the Boltons as they now held a castle that had been promised to them through treachery.

The crimson scorpion taunted Ramsay, a stark reminder that the same fate that had once befall House Stark was now knocking at his own door.

The Boltons had always been cunning, a trait that had served them well as they clawed their way into power. Yet, as they stood in the stolen halls of Winterfell, the very seat of the Starks that they had once helped, albeit begrudgingly, it seemed that the wheel of fate was turning against them.

Ramsay could not help but think back to the events that had led to their current situation. Theon Greyjoy, the weak-willed pretender, had been the catalyst for their rise, his ill-advised rebellion leaving Winterfell vulnerable to the predators waiting in the wings.

Yet it was the Boltons who had ultimately claimed the castle for them, as Ramsay had played his own game.

Roose had been the mastermind, orchestrating alliances with the Freys and the Lannisters to bring down the Starks and secure his own position in the North.

Ramsay had been the instrument of their power, carrying out the deeds that had earned him his notorious reputation as the Bastard of Bolton.

Theon's betrayal had been the spark that ignited the flames of war, but it was the Boltons' treachery that had truly ravaged the North.

As they pondered their next move, the crimson scorpion banner remained a taunting enigma. The symbol was unfamiliar, but the audacity behind it was not lost on Ramsay.

"We will not rest until we have found them," Ramsay swore, the fire in his eyes mirroring the emblem that had become his obsession. "And when we do, they will wish they had never dared to challenge House Bolton."

The room fell silent, the only sound the crackling of the fireplace. Roose knew his son's temper all too well.

Ramsay's mind raced with thoughts of vengeance. The crimson scorpion was a slap in the face to their family's pride, and he would not rest until he knew who had dared to challenge House Bolton so openly.

He knew that the loss of the Dreadfort was a significant blow to their power, and that their enemies would be watching, waiting for any sign of weakness.

"My spies have told me that Stannis has left the Wall. He will be here soon. We must face him before we put down the pretenders who stole our family home. If we leave now to face an unknown enemy, we will lose Winterfell, and our men."

Roose's words were a cold slap of reality, and Ramsay knew that his father was right.

They had to prioritize their battles, and the immediate threat was Stannis Baratheon.

The Boltons had to be strategic, as the Ironborn had proven unpredictable and the true loyalties of the North were as murky as the waters of the Neck.

"We will march on Stannis first," Roose decided, his voice firm and unyielding. "We must ensure that the North remains ours before we can think of reclaiming what has been taken from us."

Ramsay nodded, his eyes still alight with anger. "And then we will deal with the crimson scorpion," he said, his voice low and menacing.

Roose knew that Ramsay would not rest until the Dreadfort was back in their hands. The Boltons had always been a family that valued power and the fear it brought.

But with Stannis on the march, they had to be pragmatic. The North was theirs to lose, and they could not afford to be distracted by a mysterious foe.

Ramsay's thoughts grew colder than the icy winds outside. If these crimson scorpions thought they could take what was his, they would learn the true meaning of terror.

Ramsay knew that his father was right; the scorpion could wait. The Dreadfort would not be lost to them permanently, not while they still had the strength to fight.

But for now, Stannis was the more immediate threat. He had to be dealt with swiftly and decisively, lest he claim the North for himself.

The Boltons had built their power on a foundation of fear. Roose knew that if they could not maintain the facade of strength, their bannermen would abandon them like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

They had to strike a balance between seeking vengeance and protecting what they had.

The North was a land of harsh truths and unforgiving winters, and the Boltons knew better than most that power was a fleeting thing.

They would crush Stannis and his forces.

Then, they would remind those traitors why the North feared House Bolton.